


It'll Earl Be Okay

by hannahrieu



Series: Untitled Nobility [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mutual Pining, Somewhat inspired by Mr. Bates in Downton Abbey, dubious consent in last chapter, will give warnings in notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-06 12:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6753517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrieu/pseuds/hannahrieu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a servant in Halidon Hall until a tragic accident forces him to leave his home and join the army. After being wounded in battle, he returns to England and finds work as a valet for the Earl of Cornwall's second born son, Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>Very lightly inspired by Mr. Bates's limp in Downton Abbey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John Watson of Halidon Hall

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank Iriya, whose Beta-reading and Brit-picking made not only the work better, but me a better writer. I feel like that sentence needs a betaread already.
> 
> You are very much appreciated, [ Iriya.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/profile)  
> 

John Watson remembers the first time he set foot in Halidon Hall. The servant's hall was large and airy and had multiple tables for the servants to sit at, and he remembers the housekeeper being friendly to his mother who had just accepted a position as a lady’s maid for the Marquess of Berwick’s eldest daughter, Lady Elsa. 

One of the maids led them up three flights of stairs to the servant's quarters, where at the end of a narrow hallway was a room just big enough for two beds and a wash basin. A window overlooking the east courtyard made the room cheerful, and John happily jumped on one of the beds and smiled at his mother. 

“Do I really get my own bed?” he said excitedly. 

“You do,” his mother replied. “Here, help me unpack.”

Since his mother was employed by the marquess, John was allowed to attend the village school in the morning, and in the afternoon he polished boots in the servant's hall. He was seven years old and proud of his position. 

“I'm the best boot boy in the land,” he would brag at school. The older boys would snicker at him, but his teacher was kind.

“Study your letters, John Watson,” he said. “Learning to read is just as important as shining boots.”

He learned to read and he enjoyed writing. He liked doing his homework, especially when the servants offered to help him around the evening table. 

“What have you got there, Johnny?” said the Mr Thomas, the third footman.

“It’s my geography lesson,” he replied. “I am reading about a place called the desert where people live in tents and ride camels.” John stopped and thought for a moment. “Mr Thomas, what’s a camel look like?”

“Well -” stammered Mr. Thomas.

The butler, Mr Frank, kindly interjected. 

“Johnny,” said Mr Frank. “If you will meet me tomorrow afternoon right after school by the ice house, I will show you what a camel looks like.”

John was speechless with excitement. He nodded his head enthusiastically and went back to his homework.

The next day John did as he was told, and sure enough, Mr Frank was waiting for him next to the ice house. He followed the butler without a word into the back of the hall, up a narrow staircase and into a large, cavernous room with marble floors. The space had floor to ceiling windows covered by dark drapes that barely blocked the bright afternoon sunshine. Painting after painting adorned the walls, and beautiful wooden and stone tables held ceramic and glass vases and figurines and busts. Mr. Frank finally stopped about the middle of the room, and nodded with his head toward the large painting on the wall. 

The image was a bit smeared for John’s taste, but he could clearly make out a man wrapped in a bunch of blankets sitting on top of a large animal with four long legs and an even longer neck. 

He turned to look at Mr Frank, who was looking expectantly down at the boy.

“That’s a camel, Johnny.”

John looked back up and committed as much detail of the animal to memory, from its long tail to its strange hooves to its bushy neck. Its long face and lips reminded him of Mr Thomas, but he felt it would be rude to say so.

“Mr Frank,” said John softly with earnest. “Thank you, ever so much.”

When John was twelve he was promoted to hall boy. He no longer went to school since his service was needed full-time in the household and he was being groomed as a footman. Upon his promotion he was moved to the male servant wing of the household where he shared not only a room but a bed with two other boys. He rarely got enough sleep as it was always toes in his face or elbows in his back or farts followed by giggles. Yet as the oldest he learned to keep the younger ones in line and they looked up to him for guidance. His mother shared a room with the other lady’s maid, Liza, and he saw her every day in the servant's hall where they all had breakfast together after the family had eaten and the marquess was off in the library writing his morning letters. John was happy and the staff was kind and though he hated the work (emptying chamber pots is never one’s true calling) he was thankful he still got to polish boots in the afternoon. 

John sprouted up like a weed in the spring of 1870, but then he stopped growing after that. He was of average height, but solid and strong and remained blond-headed and blue-eyed, though the housekeeper had always insisted both would darken in time. Mr Frank thought it was time that Mr Thomas took him under his wing for training. He shadowed Mr Thomas day in and day out as he learned the proper way to carry trays serve food, pour wine, open doors, and greet guests of the family. He learned how to be invisible, how to stand for hours without complaint, to be aware without being bored, and to respond accordingly when addressed. By the time his 16th birthday had come and gone, he was an official footman in the Marquess of Berwick's home. 

Mr. Thomas was very proud of his apprentice and said so one night at dinner. 

“Johnny, your mother should be very proud,” he said, grinning at Mrs. Watson. “You have taken to service like a duck to water.”

Mrs Watson smiled at her boy. “I am as proud as I’ve always been of you, John,” she replied. She took his hand and whispered. “Your father would also be very proud of you.” 

John smiled back in gratitude and squeezed her hand. “Mother,” he said. “I should like to return to Luss one day so I can learn more about him.”

A strange look flashed across his mother’s face. “Of course you should,” she said. “We shall go together.” She paused for a moment, then continued. “Do you think of him often?”

John didn’t want to admit to his mother that he thought of his father multiple times a day since he'd passed. “Sometimes,” he answered. 

“You and I will discuss it very soon,” she said, right as the bell rang. She headed up the stairs to Lady Elsa.

Later that day, John was roused from his boots to witness the village doctor hurrying along the servant's hall. Mr Thomas was suddenly at John’s side, dragging him down the hall behind him.

“Johnny, there’s been a terrible accident. Your mother -”

“What about my mother?” John demanded, his voice full of worry.

“Come!” he said, pulling him into the back hall where the maids and the cook and now the doctor were standing around a body on top of the kitchen table. 

There his mother lay, her eyes shut and her head bleeding. Her body was cocked at an odd angle and her breath was shallow and uneven. John knew something was terribly wrong. 

“I think she fell,” said Liza. “I heard a terrible crash, and I found her at the bottom of the stairs.” She began to weep.

The doctor checked her wounds and her pulse, lifted her eyelids and pressed on her ribs.

“Her back is broken,” he said sadly. He pulled out a small bottle and filled a syringe. He stuck it carefully into his patient’s ribs. 

He then turned to John. “I’m sorry, Johnny,” he said. “Your mother is in a very bad way. I can only make her comfortable.”

John looked back and forth between the doctor and his mother, his face filled with grief. “What should I do?”

The doctor patted him on the shoulder. “Say what needs to be said,” he said softly. He glanced around at the others, and they all slowly left the room as John crouched by his mother’s side. 

He took her hand and said, “Mother, can you hear me?” 

When she didn’t respond, John leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. 

“Mother, the doctor says you are in a bad way,” he said softly. “I think he means you're dying.” His voice broke as he said the last word. A sob escaped his throat. Tears wetted his cheeks. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered helplessly. “Mother, tell me what to do.”

His mother’s breath became more labored and she began to wheeze. Her body shook as she began to draw for breath. 

“Doctor!” shouted John. 

The doctor hurried back in and put his ear to her chest. “Her lungs are filling with blood,” he said. 

Mr Thomas, Liza and the cook stood alongside John and watched helplessly as his mother suffocated. Her labored breathing eventually, painfully stilled.

John approached her and lifted her hand to his lips. In shock and completely devastated, he didn’t move from her side for hours.

Finally, as dusk settled in, Mr Frank approached him and asked if he would like to sit down. When John went to move to the chair, he collapsed to the floor and didn’t awaken until the following afternoon.

 

The funeral was simple. The family paid for it and his mother was buried in the Berwick cemetery, though he wished he had the money to transport her to Luss to be buried there next to his father. His grief was enormous, but he was thankful for Mr Frank and Mr Thomas and Liza and the housekeeper. Their kindness and friendship pulled him out of his dark moments. Mr Frank especially worked to keep John engaged. He taught him extra skills beyond his footman duties, including valet protocol and how to wind the hallway clocks.

One day, Mr Frank called for him, and John, expecting another round of wine preparation or plate measurements for a proper table setting, only saw concern on the butler’s face. 

“Johnny, her ladyship the marchioness wishes to speak with you,” he said. “Follow me.”

They traipsed up the servant's stairs and through the narrow hall to the great hall and walked down the gleaming wooden floors to the library. Mr Frank entered and introduced John to the marchioness, who was sitting regally on a settee and drinking a cup of tea. 

“Thank you, Frank,” she said warmly. “Please, leave us.” 

“As you wish, m’lady,” answer Mr Frank. He gave John an assuring look and left the room, closing the large wooden doors behind him. 

John stood silently, waiting to be addressed. The marchioness continued to sip her tea, obviously in no hurry to get on with whatever she had summoned John to discuss.

“My condolences on your mother,” she finally said. “I’m sure her death has been very hard for you.”

“Yes m’lady, thank you,” answered John. 

“When we took your mother on,” she continued, “It was agreed that you would stay as long as she stayed.”

“She was very grateful to you, m’lady,” answered John truthfully. “As am I.”

The marchioness paused again to sip her tea. 

“I hope you will understand that her agreement with the family is now void,” she said matter-of-factly. 

“Of course, m’lady” answered John, confused. Of course it is, thought John. She died.

“Then you will not be surprised when I ask that you leave this house,” she said firmly. 

“M’lady?” he replied. He felt embarrassed to have her ladyship repeat herself, but he had not heard her correctly. 

The marchioness rose from the settee and put her cup down on the table. “You will be provided a reference, of course, plus wages and severance. But you’ll leave here, today, and never come back.” She looked at John expectantly. “Do we understand each other?”

John didn’t understand. He just stood there, looking at her.

“Perhaps your current insolence is intentional,” she snapped.

Her tone brought him to his senses. “No m’lady,” he said, his voice choked. He bowed slightly and then turned and walked out the door.

He paused to catch his breath, then turned and bounded up the three flights of stairs to his room. 

He packed what little he had in a small bag that had belonged to his mother. He thought if he kept moving and not thinking, he would make it out of the house before he completely fell apart.

Mr Frank appeared in the doorway. 

“Johnny,” he said sadly. “I’m so sorry.”

John tried to speak, but his face crumpled. Deep sobs escaped from his throat as Mr Frank stepped forward and held him. 

“I don't understand,” he cried. “Why?”

Mr. Frank shook his head. “I don't know, lad. I don't know.”

He pulled him away and told him to dry his tears. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small purse.

“Here, take it,” he said placing it in John's trembling hand. “Use it wisely. This along with your final wages should be enough to get you to Luss.”

John hadn't even thought as to where he would go, but Mr Frank's kindness made him immediately thankful.

“Sir, I can't -”

“Yes you can,” he replied. “Your mother was a kind lady and you have worked hard. Take it and be well, Johnny.” Mr Frank gave his shoulder a squeeze. 

“Thank you,” said John softly. 

John headed downstairs to the servant's hall. The housekeeper stood in the hallway with an envelope and a basket.

“Johnny,” she said, holding back tears. “The steward came by with your wages. And here, the cook packed you enough food to last the week.”

“Thank you so much,” said John, taking his wages and the food. He kissed the housekeeper and the cook goodbye and walked out of the hall, only to be stopped by Mr Thomas. 

“Johnny, where will you go?” he asked, concern etched across his face.

“I’ll go to Luss,” said John. “I haven’t anywhere else.”

“Here,” said Mr Thomas, handing him a letter. “My sister’s pub is in Currie, just outside of Edinburgh. Give her this, and she’ll give you shelter for as long as she can.”

“Mr Thomas…” began John. Tears started falling again from his eyes. He leaned forward and embraced him. “I shall miss you,” he whispered. 

“Take care, my dear Johnny,” he replied, hugging him tightly. 

With much effort, John composed himself. He forced himself not to look back as he headed to the village below.

John hitched a ride to Dunbar and from there bought a train ticket to Edinburgh. He ate a sandwich from the cook’s basket on the train. It tasted of home. He had lived ten years in Halidon Hall. The servants there were his family, and he was heartbroken to leave them. There were moments his heart would seemingly stop with fear; he had no employment, no prospects, and little knowledge of the world. 

In Edinburgh, he found a ride into Currie. It was late by the time he reached the pub. John found Mr Thomas’s sister immediately as she looked just like him. She charitably put John up for two days, allowing him to rest, and happily replenished his food basket before sending him on his way.

John then took the train into Glasgow. It was late when he arrived, so he paid for a room near the train station and wandered down to the local public house. The journey was beginning to wear him down, and he was feeling low and alone. He thought a pint would help him sleep, as he hadn’t slept much since leaving Halidon. 

Inside the bustling pub, John sat with his ale and sipped it slowly. He wondered if he had any family in Luss to speak of, if anyone would remember his father or mother, or even remember him. It had been ten years after all. He was not the same little boy, and he knew no one would recognise him. He was beginning to think that returning to Luss was a terrible idea. He should have stayed and tried for work in one of the larger estates down south instead of wasting his money heading northwest. His money was already dwindling. He took another sip of his ale. 

A man suddenly sat down beside him. He patted John heavily on the back. 

“Cheers, my good man,” said the stranger. “Next pint's on me.” 

John looked over and saw a soldier, complete with his tall hat and sword, sitting next to him. His red uniform was tidy and his mustache was gloriously combed and styled. 

“Do I know you?” said John. 

“Sergeant Reginald Baxter, God save the Queen,” responded the soldier. He waved for two more ales to be set at the table and pulled out a bottle of whisky from under the table, removing the cork with his teeth. “Here, this’ll put some hair on that chest of yours.”

He sat the full bottle in front of John. John looked at it, and then picked it up and took a generous swig. He grimaced as he swallowed it down. He started coughing as the liquid caught his chest on fire.

The soldier laughed. “That’s it! Nice job, laddie,” he said. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship between you and me. Have you ever thought about serving your Queen and country?”

The rest of the night was a blur and later, when John looked back, he couldn’t remember much of anything except a lot of drinking and swearing and really bad jokes. He woke up the next morning with a horrible headache and a shilling in his pocket with instructions to report to the Glasgow magistrate’s office to be sworn in to her majesty’s army. 

John didn't make it to Luss. He instead ended up on the other side of the world. 

 

****

John’s regiment, the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, was stationed in India near the Afghan border when the fighting broke out. He, along with his comrades, was ready for action. They’d sat idle for too long. 

“Aye, finally we’ll get to fire our rifles at a real target,” said his friend Bill. “Hopefully our inactivity hasn’t atrophied your eyes.”

John pointed the rifle and knocked a small rock off a fence post 1000 metres away. Bill whistled in awe. 

“Nay,” he said, laughing. “Glad you’re on our side, Watson. You won’t be wasted in the infirmary after the Captain finds out you're a crack shot.”

A week later the regiment joined forces with General Roberts’s brigades outside of Kabul and the real fighting began. The Fusiliers attacked from the east along with the Earl of Cornwall’s Light Infantry commanded by the Earl himself, Major Holmes. Like Bill said, John was moved to the front line and saw first-hand the horrors of war. Men dying, dirt flying, smoke so thick he didn’t know which way to fire. For a whole day and night they pushed forward, the Afghans in retreat.

A fresh wave of relief troops finally poured forward at daybreak. The Royal Horse Artillery flew by the soldiers, shouting and galloping and blowing their horns. In the disarray John found himself near the foot of a mountain. He hobbled over to get out of the way and to rest his body against the cool rock. It was abnormally hot for the time of year and his canteen was almost empty. He was afraid of the hot sun rising in the east. 

John followed a narrow path between the rocks to look for shade. He rounded the corner and there, in the distance, he spotted a British soldier. He was on his knees with his hands tied behind his back.

Two Afghan soldiers stood over him, one holding a drawn sword to his neck and the other pointing a rifle at his chest. 

John flattened up against the rocks and hid. He heard the Afghans shout at the man, but what they were saying he couldn’t quite make out. He pulled his knife from his boot and readied his rifle.

One of the Afghans began yelling again but was silenced by John’s knife piercing his heart.

A shot rang out and the other Afghan fell to the ground on top of his comrade. 

John ran to the British soldier’s side. He checked to make sure the two men were dead, then began to untie the hostage. The man, beaten and exhausted, looked up at him with almost translucent eyes, smiled, and then collapsed to the ground. 

John dragged the man into the shade and dripped the last of the water from his canteen into the man’s parched mouth. He not only realised the soldier was an officer by the decor on his uniform, but that he was bleeding profusely from a wound in his stomach. John bound his waist the best he could to stop the bleeding. He then reloaded his rifle, wiped off his knife and snuck back out to the battlefield. 

At that moment a group of fresh cavalrymen rode by. John flagged one of them down and explained he had a wounded officer that needed immediate medical attention. The cavalryman helped John move the wounded man onto the horse and rode him back to camp. 

With one bullet left and no water, John followed the horse’s prints the several miles to the camp, and upon its sight collapsed to the ground. 

*****

When John awoke he was on a cot in the makeshift infirmary. He tried to swallow, but his tongue felt huge in his mouth. He shivered violently, knocking his blanket on the floor. John somehow got to his feet to retrieve it, but became so dizzy he fell to his knees. He bent over to vomit, but nothing came up. He heard someone shout for a doctor just as he blacked out.

When he opened his eyes again, the room had ceased spinning and his stomach had settled. He carefully sat up and rubbed his face with his palms. He gathered it was late. The air was cool and the room was dark and quiet. The only light was from a lamp by one of the beds towards the back of the tent. A man lay awake, his upper body propped up so he could read. 

The man began to cough and then groan. John got out of bed and went to fetch the man some water. He took the cup gratefully from John’s hands and swallowed it down. 

After a moment, the man handed the cup back got John and said quietly. “Thank you.”

John finally recognised him as the man he’d rescued from the two Afghan soldiers. “How are you feeling, sir? I might need to check your stitches…”

The man shook his head. “No, I’m fine,” he said. “This belly wound isn’t going to kill me, but pneumonia might. Blasted bed rest.” He turned his full attention to John, sizing him up with the most beautiful crystal blue eyes John had ever seen.

“What's your name?”

“John Watson, sir,” John replied. “Northumberland Fusiliers 5th regiment under the command of Captain Clinton.”

“Watson,” said the man. “No rank?”

“No, sir,” replied John. “I’m medical staff. Assistant surgeon in training. Assigned to the front lines because I can shoot.”

The man smiled. “I’m Major Siger Holmes. I command the Cornwall Light Infantry.” 

John stiffened and immediately saluted him, but the man chuckled. “No need for that, lad.” His laughter quickly turned into a cough. John refilled the cup and Major Holmes drank it all down.

“I owe you a great debt, Watson. You saved my life.”

“Sir,” said John humbly, bowing slightly. “I was just doing my job, sir.”

Holmes’s eyes twinkled at John’s lack of pride. “What did you do before joining her majesty’s army?” he asked. 

“I was a footman for the Marquess of Berwick, sir, training to be a valet,” said John. 

“Berwick,” he replied. “Albert and Sara Stuart.”

John’s eyes grew wide. “You know them, sir?” 

“Not really,” said Holmes. “I know the area. The Duke and Duchess of Alnwick are good friends of the family.” Holmes noticed the curiosity in John’s eyes, so he elaborated. “I am the Earl of Cornwall and Viscount of Land’s End.”

“Cornwall, sir,” said John. “That’s at the tip of England?”

“It is,” he replied. The Earl paused for a moment, thinking. “I know my estate is quite far from Berwick, but I wish to extend to you an open invitation to Land’s End and guaranteed employment in my household. It's the least I could do for what you've done for me.”

“Sir, that is most generous,” replied John, both shocked and grateful. “Thank you, sir,” he said, bowing. 

“Thank you, Watson,” said Major Holmes. “If it weren’t for you, I’d not have the chance to see my sons again.” The major began to cough again.

“I think you should rest, sir,” said John, helping him to lie back. 

Major Holmes didn’t argue. He was soon sound asleep. 

John padded back to his cot and tried to rest. He’d saved an Earl’s life, and for the first time in a long time he was proud of himself. If he failed to become a real doctor, then maybe he could go back into service. 

He fell asleep with hope in his heart.


	2. Sherlock Holmes of Lands End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is wounded and returns to England. He finds work at Lands End and meets The Earl's second born, Sherlock Holmes.

The Honourable Sherlock Holmes, the Earl of Cornwall’s second son, stood at the kitchen in the servant's hall with his new device. It sat in the middle of the prep table shooting a searing, blue flame into the air. 

The kitchen maid stood off to the side, eyes wide and twisting a towel between her fingers. Her eyes floated back and forth from the flame to the handsome Sherlock, who was oblivious to the chaos he was causing. 

The cook entered her kitchen, and she took one look at Sherlock and the flame and shouted, “Lord Sherlock, what have I told you about using my gas line for your experiments! What good is it for me to have a new stove to cook your supper if you're constantly interrupting my heat?”

“Mrs Hudson,” answered Sherlock. “It’s called a Bunsen burner. From Germany.” He turned the gas up and the flame burned higher and brighter. 

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes. “Don't make me tell his lordship -”

She clasped her hand over her mouth as her eyes dropped to the floor. 

Sherlock solemnly clicked off the burner. 

“I’m so sorry, m’lord,” said Mrs Hudson. “I didn’t mean -”

“It’s not your fault, Mrs Hudson,” replied Sherlock. He gave her a small, reassuring smile. “I’m wreaking havoc. My father would not have approved.” He turned off the valve and unhooked the burner from the line, reattaching it to the stove. He then turned and kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek. “Dinner smells heavenly, per usual.”

She smiled after him as his tall, lithe frame bounded up the servant stairs.

\---------------

Sherlock found his brother Mycroft in the library, lounging in the same chair their father had sat in just a couple of weeks before. 

The Earl of Cornwall had complained of acute, severe pain in his abdomen. The local physician had surmised it was simply a flare up of his wound from the war. Within days, however, it was evident that something was seriously wrong with Siger Holmes. It turned out his appendix had ruptured, and it was too late to stop the damage. 

He died on a Thursday afternoon. 

Mycroft, the eldest and heir, was now the Earl of Cornwall. He was born to fill the role, not just because he was the first but because ruling suited him. Sherlock, on the other hand, was interested only in science and his experiments and rarely heeded a word his brother or anyone said. 

“Anderson tells me you were using the gas line again in the kitchen.”

“Anderson is a bloody snitch who needs additional duties to keep him out of other people's affairs.” 

Mycroft sat back against the chair and sighed. For moment, he resembled the Earl. 

“You look like Father, the way you’re sitting,” observed Sherlock.

The weight of invisible grief pressed down on them for a moment. Thankfully, the butler, Mr. Roberts, interrupted them.

“Excuse me, m'lords, but you have a visitor.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “I didn't hear anyone come to the door.”

“He's not a guest, m'lord. He's downstairs. He's requesting to speak to his lordship.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and followed Roberts downstairs. Sherlock trotted eagerly behind. 

Roberts opened the door to his sitting room. A man stood by the butler’s desk, a hat in one hand, the other gripping a thin wooden cane. He was solid in stature and, though of average height, stood up very straight as the men entered. His blonde hair had been recently cut and his face shaved, but his suit was ill-fitted and dull. It was apparent to both the Earl and his brother that this man had fallen on hard times. His deep blue eyes were still sharp, and though his expression showed nervousness he was pleasant. He addressed the men with manners and courtesy.

“My lords,” he bowed slightly. “I beg forgiveness for interrupting your day. My name is John Watson, and it is his lordship the Earl I respectfully request a word.”

“I am the Earl of Cornwall,” responded Mycroft not unkindly. 

Confusion flickered across John Watson’s face. “My lord,” he said carefully. “Might I inquire on Lord Siger Holmes, The Earl of Cornwall and Viscount of Land’s End?”

Mycroft's eyes dipped to the floor. “My father passed suddenly, not long ago. I am Mycroft Holmes, the heir.”

Shock filled the young man’s face. “My lord, my deepest condolences. I am so very sorry. I didn't know.”

Mycroft raised his chin, his moment of grief pushed aside to handle more pertinent matters. “What is it you wished to speak to my father about?"

John shuffled a little, leaning more on his good, left leg. Sherlock, who had been silently watching the exchange behind Roberts, surmised that the man was in significant pain. He stoically continued to hold himself up, and addressed Mycroft with summoned strength. “Your father, his lordship...we crossed paths during the war. He offered me employment should I find myself in Land’s End.”

Watson’s words triggered a memory in Sherlock’s sharp mind, something his father had mentioned a few times after he’d returned from war. He talked of being indebted to a young man who had saved his life from enemy soldiers during the Battle of Kabul. 

Sherlock suddenly spoke, his baritone filling the silence and forcing Mycroft and Roberts to turn around. “Are you the soldier who secured his safety in battle?” 

John’s face brightened, his eyes glancing gratefully at Sherlock. “Yes, sir, in Kabul. We convalesced in the same infirmary. His lordship was very kind and offered me employment in Land’s End, as I am a trained footman and valet. My former employer was the Marquess of Berwick.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He handed it over to Roberts. “I am eager to fulfill any position. I can start today.” 

Mycroft glanced at the reference over Robert’s shoulder. They both gave each other a look. Mycroft turned and spoke. 

“Mr Watson, I do not doubt your story. Our father did speak of a young man’s heroic act that saved his life during the war. I also do not doubt he offered you employment here on our estate,” he said. “But I must enquire about the state of your health. How are you to perform your duties as a footman if you cannot carry a tray?”

Sherlock watched John’s stoic expression hint at embarrassment. He looked down at his cane, and positioned himself to stand up even taller. 

“M’lord, my limp seems to come and go,” he explained. “I vow to work harder than two footmen. All I ask for is this opportunity promised to me by your late father, may he rest in peace.”

Mycroft pondered the request. “I doubt you were in this condition when my father offered you the position.”

“No, sir,” he said firmly, trying to hide his frustration. “I was wounded in the Battle of Maiwand.”

It was obvious, at least to Sherlock, that Mr Watson was exhausted, hungry and in pain. He admired the young man’s tenacious composure. A fierce intelligence and self-reliance sparkled in his eyes, and though the odds were stacked against him, John Watson was a fighter. He was not leaving until he had either secured employment or had exhausted every possible angle to do so. 

For Sherlock, all those qualities, plus the fact John Watson was rather easy on the eyes, gave him the rare motivation to actually give a damn.

“Mycroft,” said Sherlock. “Roberts, may I speak with you outside?”

Mycroft and Roberts turned, surprised, and followed Sherlock out into the hallway. 

“Baby brother, I do hope this isn’t about your Bunsen burner,” Mycroft lamented.

“Oh shut up,” spat Sherlock. “It was our father’s wish we employ this man. Give him a position.”

“My lord,” said Roberts. “With all due respect, I cannot have a lame footman. It’s not fair to the others.”

Mycroft nodded. “Roberts is right. I feel for Watson, but we do not have an open position for which he is suitable.”

It suddenly dawned on Sherlock that they in fact, did. 

“I’ll take him,” he said.

Mycroft and Roberts looked at him like he was mad. 

“M’lord?”

“Sherlock,” warned Mycroft. 

“What?” said Sherlock. “You’ve been nagging me since I returned from the war that I need to be more reputable. What better way than to have my own valet?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and looked back at Roberts. Sherlock had a point. 

“There, it’s settled,” announced Sherlock, slapping and rubbing his hands together. “I’ll tell him. He can start as soon as possible. That is, if it's okay with you Roberts.”

Roberts suppressed a sigh. “Yes, m’lord, whatever you wish.”

“Wonderful,” said Sherlock, gloating at Mycroft.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed in defeat.

John Watson’s employment began immediately. He moved upstairs and was given a room to share with Dimmock, the first footman. He didn’t mind. He was relieved to have a clean bed and a room free of vermin. He unpacked what little he had into his tiny dresser. He reported downstairs to be fitted for his uniform. Afterwards, it was late, and he joined the servants at the large dinner table for supper. 

Butler Roberts walked in and took his seat, and the others followed. Chatter began amongst the servants. 

“Welcome, Mr Watson,” said Dimmock. “Glad to have you aboard.”

“Thank you,” answered John. He was so hungry he could barely keep both of his hands from stuffing his mouth at the same time. The train ticket had cost him the last of his savings and he hadn’t eaten in two days. 

“Where are you from Mr. Watson?” asked Molly, the head housemaid. 

“I’m originally from Luss, but was in service with the Marquess of Berwick for most of my life before I entered the army,” answered John politely. He shovelled more soup into his mouth.

“You were the Marquess of Berwick’s valet?” asked Anderson skeptically. 

John shook his head. “No, I was a footman, training to become a valet.”

“I don’t know too many footmen who use a cane,” replied Anderson snidely. 

Molly shot him a look. Dimmock shook his head. “Anderson, as his lordship's valet, I thought you would be more welcoming to a fellow colleague.”

“Why? So I can help him carry a tray or collect his lordship's clothing off the floor?” remarked Anderson. 

John swallowed his soup and glared at Anderson. “I can assure you, I will need no help from you.” John looked around the table. “Or any of you.”

“That’s enough,” said Roberts. “Either we get along or there will be no talking at all.”

Anderson glared at John. John tried to ignore him and ate the rest of his dinner in silence.

\--------------

Early the next morning, John knocked on Sherlock’s door. 

“Enter,” he heard a voice. 

John walked in to find his lordship standing in front of a large wooden crate. He was still in his robe, and he had a crowbar jammed in one side of the box.

“Blasted crates,” shouted Sherlock. “It’s not fine china, for God’s sake.”

John walked up to his side and inspected the box. “Mind if I try, sir?” Sherlock, red-faced and pouting, handed over the crowbar without a word. John jimmied each corner of the crate and the lid popped right off. 

“Watson, you’re a bloody genius,” remarked Sherlock. He threw the packing straw all over the floor as he pulled out a set of large, leather-bound books with gold lettering. _Beilsteins Handbuch der organischen Chemie _they all read, volumes 1-27. “Look at how beautiful they are,” Sherlock said, handing one of the books to John. John flipped through it.__

____

____

“What is this, German, m’lord?” 

Sherlock nodded. “27 volumes of Beilstein’s latest work. One of the greatest literary achievements of mankind. He’s identified and described over 15,000 organic compounds and chemical reactions.”

“Quite impressive, m’lord” said John. 

“Impressive, yes,” mumbled Sherlock. “Don’t tell Mycroft. They were obscenely expensive.”

A smile quirked at the corner of John’s lips. “May I help you put them on your shelf, m’lord?”

Sherlock held volume 3 in his hands and stared at John. He seemed to be deciding on whether or not to say what was on his mind.

“It would mean a great deal to me if you’d call me Sherlock,” he said.

“That would be highly inappropriate, m’lord.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he mumbled. “I was born into high society but I do not value its tradition. Most would say it is because I am second born with no title to inherit, but I daresay I’m a modern man who knows the world is changing.” 

He paused to study John with intense interest. John stood silently, blinking back at him. 

“Why would an army doctor with a limp want to go back into service?”

“I’m not a doctor, m’lord,” said John. “I’ve never been to medical school. I learned what I know while stationed in India and Afghanistan.”

“How long?” he said.

“Almost ten years. Until injury forced me out.” 

Sherlock glanced at his cane. “It comes and goes?”

“Aye, m’lord.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. “Is there any way you would at the very least consider not addressing me as m’lord when we’re alone?” He walked up and with a huff handed John a stack of books, then pulled the ladder over and crawled up to the top shelf.

John smiled and began to hand him a book one by one. “Why are we putting them at the top?”

“Because,” said Sherlock, the corner of his mouth tugging into a slight smile as he noticed the absence of m’lord. “I don’t want Mycroft to see them and ship them back. I’ll start using them to teach and he’ll be unable to return them without disappointing the village.”

“You teach the sciences in the village school?” John asked. “That’s wonderful.”

“You think so?” answered Sherlock, climbing down the ladder. “Ever since I got back from the war, it's my only solace.” He traced his hands over one of the smooth, black books. “I only had to serve four years. I was conscripted because of my background in language and science.”

“Where were you stationed?” John inquired. 

“Guşgy.”

“Turkmenia?” said John. “Isn’t that part of the Russian empire now? Why would we have a regiment in disputed territory?”

“There wasn’t anyone stationed there, at least not officially,” answered Sherlock. “Your orders were to defeat the rebels. Mine were to spy on the Russians.”

“Really?”

He climbed the ladder again as John handed him a stack. 

“I took on a fake identity in Turkmenia,” said Sherlock, slipping the new books behind the old. “Befriended those on both sides, locals and the Russians. The Russian army already had a presence in the area, but the fighting started when the locals banded together to push them out. I fed information to the British forces stationed in Kabul. I speak Russian, Turkmen and Pashto fluently now.” He stopped and said out loud to himself, “I haven’t told anyone that. Not even Mycroft.” 

“I can insult someone’s mother in Pashto,” John deadpanned. 

Sherlock turned, raising an eyebrow. “I would certainly hope so, considering how long you were stationed over there.”

John smiled. “So you were keeping the Russians sidetracked while we established our place in Afghanistan. Makes sense,” he said. “Keeps them hundreds of miles away from the border of India. Brilliant.”

Sherlock glanced down at him. “You think so?”

“Yeah, amazing,” said John appreciatively. He handed him the last of the books. “You’re a bit of an unsung hero, actually.”

For a moment, Sherlock looked at John in pure adoration. He then snapped out of it and shimmied down the ladder. “Thank you for your help, Watson. If you’d be so kind, I’d appreciate my riding attire readied before the luncheon.”

“Very good,” said John, nodding his head. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Sherlock. “Oh, and Watson. Let’s keep this discussion between us.”

“Of course,” said John, nodding once. “Discretion, always.”

John turned and left. Sherlock continued to look after him, like he’d just met an earthly angel.

\----------------

The visitors were seen coming up the long drive to Land's End. Since it was Mycroft’s first time greeting visitors as the official Earl, it was tradition for the servants to line up outside the entrance to welcome the guests. 

Anderson took his place next to John in the courtyard, who was standing arrow-straight, making sure his cane was well-hidden by the sides of his coat. 

The Duke and Duchess of Nottingham emerged from their carriage. Mycroft greeted them warmly as did his wife, Countess of Cornwall, Irene Adler Holmes. Sherlock stood off to the side, looking bored.

“Mycroft, old chap,” said the Duke. “Or should I say, my lord.” 

“None of that,” said Mycroft, shaking his hand.

“Irene!” exclaimed the Duchess. “You look ravishing. Where is that precious boy of yours?”

“He’s in the nursery,” answered Irene. “Come, I’ll have him brought to us.” They walked in the main door just as the Duke approached Sherlock. He shook his hand vigorously. 

“Sherlock, good to see you,” he said. “I hear you have delved into the land of scientific research. What’s this I hear about a Bunsen burner?”

Sherlock held out his arm and motioned for him to come inside. “Come, Walter, I’ll show you.”

Just then, a loud noise and sharp cry forced everyone to stop and turn around. 

John Watson had fallen face down onto the cold, hard ground in between Anderson and Dimmock. His cane lay haphazardly in the middle of the Courtyard.

“Watson,” said Sherlock, startled. He immediately started towards him. Dimmock reached down and helped John back to his feet. Sherlock picked up his cane and handed it back to the valet, who was obviously humiliated. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, m’lord,” answered John, trying to control the emotion in his voice. “My deepest apologies.” John continued to look down at the ground. His entire face and neck were bright pink and his jaw was set in embarrassment.

Sherlock glanced at Dimmock, then at Anderson. Anderson looked straight ahead, no expression on his face, but a definite twinkle of satisfaction in his eye.

“Alright,” said Sherlock, turning back to the Duke and Duchess. “Walter, this way to the marvels of the new scientific age,” he said grandly. The Duke laughed and the party disappeared inside the doors as the servants returned to the side entrance to get to work.

\-------------

 

That evening, John found an abandoned catalogue on the servant's hall table. In the back were advertisements to cure all sorts of ailments. One in particular caught the valet’s eye:

_Heidelberg’s Natural Body Brace! Braces for leg misalignments. Simple, comfortable, economical. Have unexplainable pain? It could be your natural alignment has been compromised! ___

____

____

Two weeks later, a large box arrived for Mr John Watson. He took it up to his room and opened it up. Inside was a metal brace about 30 centimetres long with two leather straps at either end. John immediately placed it around his bad leg and fastened the straps. He pulled trousers down over the top of it, pleased it was unnoticable from the outside. He slid the empty box under his bed and returned to work with a hopeful smile on his face. 

But that smile soon diminished as John found his leg growing worse. Over the next week the pain became unbearable as his muscles began to spasm, sometimes catching him off guard while carrying a tray or heavy items on the stairs. The leather straps began to rub his skin raw while the unbendable metal of the brace sometimes forced his knee to lock up. 

John was nothing but determined. He figured if he could stick with it long enough he would get used to it, and if it cured him in the long run, some weeks of discomfort were definitely worth it. He soldiered on despite the pain.

\----------

Most mornings Sherlock went to the stables. He enjoyed riding all over the estate and always went alone, usually packing a lunch and returning right around tea time. 

As routine, John knocked on his door and entered with riding clothes and boots. Sherlock, still in his robe, was packing a small bag with paper and pencil and small glass tubes. 

“Good morning, Watson,” he said cheerfully. “Glorious day for a ride, isn’t it?” 

“It is,” answered John. “But it’s a bit chilly right now. I’d suggest your heavier coat until the frost melts.” 

Sherlock dropped his robe onto the bed and began to dress. John reached over and gathered it up just as the leather strap from his brace caught on his knee. John felt his skin burst open, his leg suddenly in searing pain. His breath froze in his throat as he fought the impulse to groan. He forced himself to pick up his lordship’s vest.

Sherlock slid his arm into the vest and primped in front of the mirror. He turned around for his boots when he realised something was terribly wrong with his valet. His eyebrows knitted together as his crystal-like eyes filled with immediate concern. 

“Watson, what is it, what’s wrong?” he asked. 

John held out Sherlock’s boots. He was perspiring and his breath was labored. “It’s nothing.”

“Do you want me to call for the doctor?”

“No,” insisted John. “I’m fine, really. I’ll just lie down a bit after we finish here.”

Sherlock took the boots from John but didn’t take his eyes off of him. John bent over to pick up his lordship’s nightshirt when the damn brace shifted and knocked his knee out of place. He stumbled and fell awkwardly over the side of Sherlock's armchair. 

Sherlock was by his side in a flash. He picked him up and helped him into the chair. This time John didn’t protest, he just closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly. 

“Is it your leg?” he asked. Sherlock knelt down in front of him. “Watson, look at me.”

Sweat poured from his forehead as he opened his eyes, nodding his head. It was no use denying it. He resigned himself to the humiliation he was feeling. 

Sherlock reached forward and pulled up the leg of his trousers. He observed the brace and the condition of his leg in complete silence. He then began to undo the leather straps.

“No, don't-” protested John.

“This is coming off, now,” said Sherlock. “Barbaric.” 

He slid the brace off and threw it aside, inspecting John’s open wounds. He then retrieved a dressing and wrapped the sores.

“Is this in response to Anderson tripping you in the courtyard?” asked Sherlock. John didn’t answer. His eyes had been on the unlit fireplace the entire time Sherlock was patching him up. “You of all people should know better. Your leg-”

“Damn my leg,” he whispered.

Sherlock rose and put on his riding boots. He handed John his cane. 

“Come on,” he said. “We’re going riding.”

\------

It had been years since John had been on a horse. It was a beautiful, crisp spring morning and the estate was just beginning to show signs of life again. Buds were on the cherry trees and the buttercups were blooming white and yellow alongside purple lilacs. The horses moved slowly along the trail as they went deeper into the grounds. 

“This is breathtaking,” said John, looking around as they climbed a hill. Tiny farm houses with little smoke stacks dotted the landscape. Sheep and cattle grazed together on one side of the estate, while hundreds of pigs slept warmly together on the other. John had not felt so free in years. 

They came upon a large pond that had a small dock built out a few metres into the water. Sherlock stopped his horse and jumped off, removing his bag from the saddle. 

“Watson, come join me,” he said. John obliged, carefully getting down from his horse and using his cane to make his way to the pond. He stood beside Sherlock, who reached into his bag.

He pulled out the brace and handed it to John. 

“Go ahead,” he said. “Throw it in. It’s where it belongs.”

John hesitated, then took the brace and walked out the edge of the dock.

He whipped the brace into the pond with all his strength. It landed in the water with a satisfying splash.

“Excellent work,” said Sherlock. 

John turned around and smiled genuinely, the sides of his eyes crinkling. “That was excellent, wasn’t it,” he said. 

Sherlock was up and back on his horse within moments. 

“Race you to the pigs!” he shouted, and took off down the path. 

John cursed under his breath, but was still grinning as he made his way back to his steed as quickly as his cane would take him. 

\-----

In the weeks and months that followed, John’s wounds finally healed but his limp remained. He felt foolish for what he had done, but Sherlock never said another word about it. In fact, it seemed to have strengthened their friendship, if John dared call it that. Sherlock was an oasis full of life and adventure when everything else around him was dull and hopeless, and he was grateful. His lordship had a different way of approaching the world that John found refreshing and exciting.

Sherlock also seemed just as fascinated with John. He was quick to include him in all of his activities, including his teaching. He would call Watson “his assistant” in front of the boys and girls as he did experiments that made them ooh and ahh. He taught them biology and chemistry and even German, since the students had full access to the books during class. 

“Es ist an Zeit, Ihre Elemente zu studieren,” Sherlock would command. 

The boys and girls would groan and respond, “Ja, Herr Lehrer”.

The morning rides were no longer a solo adventure as the two men took off together to explore the estate. Sherlock had started collecting leaves for the students’ lesson on plant life. John had begun writing again, something he enjoyed immensely. He’d sometimes catalogue Sherlock’s observations, and other times he’d write about the estate and its beauty and history. Sometimes he’d sketch the landscape. He'd even sketched Sherlock a few times when he was sure he wasn't looking. 

One summer afternoon they sat in the meadow along the shade trees, John with his pencil and Sherlock with his samples, when Sherlock asked,

“Have you ever been to Berlin?”

“I haven’t.”

“I’ve been invited to attend the International Congress of Chemistry next month,” he said, then hesitated. “I wanted to make sure you were up for going.”

“Of course,” said John. “Why I wouldn’t be?”

Sherlock looked at him, then down at his leg. 

“Oh,” said John. “I’m fine.” 

He put down his pencil and smiled at Sherlock. 

“You have your father’s eyes you know,” he said suddenly.

Sherlock smiled back, genuinely pleased. “Tell me the story of how you met. He never told me details.”

John sat the paper down and leaned back on his hands. “I was on the front line,” he began. “I found your father kidnapped and being threatened by these two Afghan soldiers. I was forced to... to take care of them -” he said, glancing up at Sherlock. “- your father was wounded so I flagged down a Cavalryman to take him back to camp.” John took a long drink from his cup. “Later we were in the same infirmary, and he was very kind to me. He offered me a job as repayment. I was very grateful.” He smiled again, deep in thought. “I recognised him by his eyes. You definitely have the same eyes.”

“You killed two men to save my father’s life?”

“Yes. And he in return saved mine,” said John. “I’ve got a job, a place to live, food to eat. I am sitting in a beautiful meadow drinking wine.” He started giggling. “I fear I’m half drunk.”

Sherlock laughed. “Watson,” he said, turning the flask over. It was empty. “You drank it all?”

John laid down in the grass, still giggling. 

Sherlock laid down next to him, his expression soft.

“Watson,” he whispered. His long, slender fingers lightly brushed over John’s blond head, translucent eyes sparkling with adoration. 

It was then John realised though his drunken haze that he felt more than friendship towards Sherlock. He wanted those large, elegant hands running through his hair. He wanted those pale, pink lips pressed to his forehead.

The thought sent him into a panic. He quickly sat up. 

“We should go back,” he said, clumsily gathering his paper and pencil. 

“Alright,” answered Sherlock, his bright smile dampening. 

“Alright,” replied John, getting to his feet with some difficulty. 

He took off towards the manor, leaving Sherlock standing in the meadow with the empty flask and picnic basket.


	3. Berlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock realize they are falling for each other while in Berlin.

John fought his drunkenness and then sleepiness well into the evening. He finally drank some strong coffee, which kept him awake through service but ultimately kept him from a good night's rest. He tossed and turned for hours, and finally gave up. He quietly dressed and snuck down to the servant's hall. He polished boots and some silver. He then remembered the hall clock on the second floor was off, and he’d forgotten to tell Roberts. He silently climbed the servant's steps and entered the long hallway, stopping in front of the old German clock. He began setting it against the pocket watch he'd snagged from the butler’s office. 

It was then he smelled the smoke. 

He immediately closed up the clock and walked carefully down the hallway towards the bed chambers. He gasped when he saw smoke billowing from under the nursery door. 

He tried the doorknob but it was as hot as a lit poker. He pulled off his jacket and turned the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. He slammed his whole body weight against the door again and again until finally it flew open. The flames shot out into the hall, singeing his arm. 

“FIRE!” he shouted. “FIRE!”

He wrapped himself in his jacket and ran into the room. In the corner was the bassinet, where a tiny Master William Siger Holmes was crying, his blanket aside and his little arms and legs kicking widely. John scooped him up and wrapped him in his blanket, tucking him under his arm and jacket. He ran back through the flames and found his way back to the door. 

He stumbled into the hallway, surrounded by the family in their night clothes. The servants began to appear with sand and water and rushed in bravely to put the fire out. 

He heard screaming and crying as the governess fluttered down the hallway. Lady Irene was being held back by the Earl. John was out of breath, but he pulled little William from his jacket and handed him forward. 

“You must get out of the house, m’lord,” he said between breaths. “Get him into fresh air, for his lungs.”

Mycroft nodded as Lady Irene took the baby, holding her son to her ample bosom. John immediately joined the other male servants in putting out the fire. 

It didn’t take long for the fire to be squelched. The maids came in and opened up the windows and began to remove the smoky linens and upholstery. John helped the others with the clean up. Mrs Hudson made them all an early breakfast and the entire staff sat down to eggs and beans and coffee at 4am. 

No one heard the footsteps on the servant stairs. The Earl and his brother were suddenly standing in the doorway. Everyone immediately dropped their utensils and noisily scooted back their chairs to stand.

Mycroft raised his hand to calm them all. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to say that I am grateful to all of you for your action and service today. You may have very well saved Land's End as we know it,” Mycroft said, his eyes uncharacteristically glistening with emotion. "And Mr Watson?"

John stepped forward, hands behind his back. He bowed his head respectfully.

“The Holmes family is once again indebted to you. You saved our father’s life in the war, and now you’ve saved the heir of this estate, my son. I will be forever grateful.”

John bowed his head again. “M’lord,” he said.

“I’ll let you all get back to your breakfast.” The Earl turned and went back up the stairs. 

Sherlock stepped forward and handed something over to John. 

“You forgot this,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “But I don’t think you’ll be needing it anymore.”

It was his cane.

John took it with amazement. Molly gasped and smiled. 

John looked down. He was standing on his own, with no pain. He looked back up at Sherlock, his eyes wide in disbelief. Sherlock smiled at him, and without a word went back up the stairs. 

“John, this is wonderful!” said Dimmock. 

“It’s a miracle!” said Molly.

John walked back to his chair and sat down. He laid the cane on the table behind him.

Anderson snorted. “Faking it this entire time, Watson?”

“Mr Anderson,” Mr Roberts said in reproach. “I've had enough of your commentary. Leave us. Now.”

“But -” stuttered Anderson.

“NOW!” Roberts bellowed. 

Anderson shot John a glare but slinked away up the stairs. John managed to suppress his laughter, but he couldn't help his rather pleased expression. 

“Watson,” asked Dimmock, “Why didn’t you tell us you saved his lordship’s life in the war?”

John took a bite of egg and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess it just never came up,” he said.

\---------------

 

John had lived in London and been stationed in India and Afghanistan, but Berlin was like no city he’d ever seen.

They arrived by rail on a Thursday afternoon. The train station was massive and even smelled new as they walked through the crowds of people flowing in and out of the building. When they emerged onto the street, John managed to fight his way through the dusty air and swarms of commuters to secure a cab. They piled in and began the slow journey through the city to the Freie Universität Berlin. 

The dirty city air made it difficult to breathe. The cab rocked and weaved about along the uneven stones. John cursed under his breath as he became sick to his stomach. Sherlock seemed unfazed. 

“Construction pits,” Sherlock said. “Berlin is an industrial explosion.”

John looked out and watched a house being torn down while another next door was being built. In some spaces giant skeletons of new buildings sat with workers hanging off the boards, hammering and swaying in the wind. On the next block over, men were leveling sand for a new street. It was all exciting and noisy and discombobulating. John was relieved when they finally arrived on campus and unloaded their belongings. 

Sherlock had arranged to stay in one of the facilities for visiting professors, as traveling back and forth to a hotel would have been too inconvenient and time-consuming since he planned to spend all of his time at the conference. The sessions didn’t officially begin until the next morning, but there was an informal mingling of sorts that evening at the Universität.

The suite was small but well-furnished. John settled Sherlock’s things in the master bedroom while Sherlock fixed himself a drink. He yanked off his jacket and laid down on the sofa. 

“If feels so good not to be moving!” he shouted as he stretched his long limbs. He took a generous swig out of his cup and set it on the table. “Watson, do reconsider my invitation to the reception this evening. I’d like to introduce you to a handful of colleagues.” He yawned. “Most are insufferable idiots but there are one or two I think you shall like.”

John hung Sherlock’s suit and jacket on the back of the desk chair. “I think I shall stay here and write. I want to capture the things I saw today while they are still fresh in my mind.”

“Sure?” said Sherlock, with a soft pout.

John smiled. “Quite sure. But I’ll wait up for you,” he said. 

John did wait up for him, but even he was surprised at how late Sherlock arrived back at the suite. He was dozing off with a book of common German phrases over his chest when he heard the door click shut. 

He stirred and sat up. “How was it?” he asked sleepily. He rose to help Sherlock out of his jacket and tie. 

“A bit tedious,” answered Sherlock. “However, the conference will be enormously beneficial.” Sherlock pulled on his robe. “I doubt if I’ll be around much these next few days. Please take time to do what you like. We can touch base on Sunday afternoon.”

“I know I’ll be taking a stroll along Friedrichstraße. I’ve heard there’s a cafe there that has electrical lighting inside.”

“Yes, it’s supposed to be quite a spectacle,” said Sherlock, reaching into his jacket pocket and handing John two tickets. “These are complimentary operetta tickets at the Apollo-Theater for Saturday evening. I won’t be going, but please feel free to use them as you like.”

John was thrilled and placed the tickets in his pocket. “Thank you, I’ll look forward to it.” 

Sherlock smiled, his eyes tired. “Alright. I’m turning in. Goodnight, Watson.”

“Goodnight.”

\------

Sherlock disappeared as he said he would, engrossed in the conference while John relished the quiet privacy of the suite. He spent a good part of the day writing and eating a tremendous amount of the complimentary sausage and cheese left by the housekeeper. After washing up he headed out and flagged a cab to take him to Friedrichstraße. He drank a delicious pale ale at the Bierhaus Siechen beer palace and practised German with a few old gentlemen standing outside one of the supply shops. As the afternoon sun lowered in the sky he sat and attempted to sketch a beautiful old baroque building. He finally gave up after the dusty air kept causing him to sneeze and mess up his lines.

When he arrived back at the suite, he wrote down every detail he could remember before falling fast asleep. 

On Saturday, John strolled around the campus enjoying the flowers and trees and the buzz of student chatter. He thought about how he would have liked to have gone to medical school like his friend and mentor Mike Stamford. He caught sight of Sherlock at one point, standing in the middle of a crowd of gentleman as he lectured on something John couldn’t quite make out. 

He headed back to the suite at tea time for a nap before dressing in his best suit. John fell in love with the Apollo-Theater, and he enjoyed the operetta immensely. He wished he could talk about it with Sherlock; the costumes, the singing, the storyline. When he returned to the suite, he tucked himself into bed and wrote for hours about the theatre. He fell asleep with the pencil still in his hand.

John awoke with the sun halfway in the sky. It was the latest he’d ever slept without being ill. He jumped out of bed and found Sherlock in his robe reading the paper and drinking tea.

“You should have woken me,” scolded John, picking up Sherlock’s clothing that he’d managed to throw all over the room. “I didn’t realise you were back.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock answered. “You were sound asleep. How was the Apollo?”

“It was brilliant,” said John. “I wish you could have gone. There was a lady whose singing I thought would shatter the windows.”

Sherlock smiled and sipped his tea. “Since this is our last night in Berlin, I’d like us to go out.”

John looked up, confused. “Go out?”

Sherlock sat down his teacup. “My friend Friedrich has invited us to dine at Reinstoff. He knows the chef and is adamant we join him.”

“We?” replied John. “I don’t think he means me.”

“I told him you were my assistant,” said Sherlock. “A medical student.”

John looked exasperated. “You what?”

Sherlock sat up, trying to explain. “Watson, these are men on the cutting edge of scientific research. They don’t care about protocol or British society. Berlin is a rather modern city.”

John shook his head. “What if we see someone we know? His lordship would be furious.”

“And?” asked Sherlock, smiling devilishly. 

“Please, I don’t wish to embarrass you,” pleaded John. 

Sherlock stood up. “I’m never embarrassed of you, Watson,” he said adamantly. “Besides, you deserve a good meal. Something other than cured meat and cheese.”

John sighed. “Alright,” he said. “But just dinner. Then I come back here.”

“Excellent.”

\-------

Friedrich August Kekulé von Stradonitz greeted Sherlock enthusiastically as his carriage pulled up to the building. He was a handsome man in his fifties, impeccably dressed and groomed and spoke with a rich, elegant accent. He warmly introduced himself to John, and John addressed him back in broken German, which he seemed to appreciate. They all squeezed into the cab to Reinstoff. 

Throughout dinner, John felt strange sitting with Sherlock while others served him. The food was delicious. Friedrich was joined by another colleague, Fritz Marchiarch, also a scientist. All three were talking shop in German. John enjoyed his dessert and people watched until the men had worn themselves out. 

John was more than ready to head back and had whistled for a cab when Friedrich handed each of them a cigarette. John picked up something about the ‘night still being fresh’ in German as the cigarettes were lit. Sherlock seemed to relish the first drag of the stick, where John could take it or leave it. He sucked on it a few times and mostly let it burn between his fingers. Fritz motioned for them to follow him down the street. 

Friedrich and Fritz had obviously had a lot of drink as they giggled and stumbled along the pavement. They turned into an alley as John gently gripped Sherlock by the arm and eased him back. 

“Do you know where we're going?” he whispered. “I’d rather not follow them blindly into the bowels of Berlin.”

Sherlock took a final drag and dropped his cigarette on the ground. “Are you going to finish that?”

“What?” John looked down at the cigarette in his hand. He handed it to Sherlock who eagerly took it. 

“They want to show us some gentlemen’s club,” he said. “One drink, and we’ll head back to the room.”

John nodded his head with some reluctance. “Alright.” He wished he had his Browning on him. He’d bought a gun in London with the last of his savings after the war. It was the only thing of value he owned. He'd left it in his luggage back at the hotel. Now he wished it was safely tucked against the small of his back.

The two men followed Fritz and Friederich into the alleyway. They stopped in front of a plain, wooden door and knocked in a succession of threes, three times. The door opened. 

“Chrysantheme,” said Fritz. The door opened wide and the two men entered. Sherlock followed curiously behind, John begrudgingly so. 

Inside was nothing special. It was an open area with a bar and wooden tables. Drinks were being served, and music was being played quietly by a man on a violin in the corner of the room. 

They all took a seat at a table beside the wall. They were served ale and Fritz and Friederich guzzled generously. Sherlock didn’t touch his. He seemed to be completely fascinated by his surroundings. 

Fritz placed his arm around Friederich. “It’s been too long,” he said softly. His fingers brushed the other man’s neck. 

The violin player’s tune became slow and sweet. Friederich grabbed Fritz by the hand and they held each other, dancing and swaying in the middle of the room. Two other men joined in, dancing and holding onto one another. John watched their mouths meet, kissing and hugging and nuzzling each other as they moved slowly around the room. 

His eyes wandered over to an attractive, middle-aged man leaning against the bar. The man was gazing at Sherlock, and then approached him like a wolf ready to pounce on a lamb. 

Jealousy began to bubble inside of John as the man sat down across from his lordship. 

"Hallo, mein Hübscher,” he said smoothly. ”Darf ich dich auf ein Bier einladen?"

The man’s suit was very expensive, bespoke. He was freshly shaved and smelled divine. The rings on his fingers cost more than John’s entire lifetime salary.

John glared at him.

Sherlock answered, pointing at the drink in front of him. “Ich habe schon eins.”

“Komm, tanz mit mir,” he said, nodding towards Fritz and Friederich, who were still swaying in each other's arms. 

”Ich kenne Sie doch überhaupt nicht."

“Stefan, angenehm. Und du bist?" 

He held out a smooth, well-manicured hand.

John felt his jealously beginning to boil over. Though he hadn’t understood much of the conversation, it was obviously Stefan had certain things in mind for Sherlock. He wished more than ever that he had his gun, so he could wipe that improper, lustful look he was giving Sherlock right off his face.

John stood up as calmly as he could, and said evenly, “We’ve had our drink. It’s late. We should go,” he said.

Sherlock glanced at him gratefully. He stood up and turned towards the entrance. 

Stefan followed suit, casually sliding in beside him, blocking John. “I have a personal carriage. I am happy to take you home,” he whispered in heavily accented English.

John watched helplessly as the man brushed his palm along Sherlock’s fingers. 

John felt his nostrils flare, the anger coursing through his veins rising to a dangerous level. He stepped in between the unwelcomed stranger and Sherlock.

“Ich nehme ihn mit nach Hause,”* John growled.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide with surprise as Stefan threw up his hands in defeat, stepping aside. 

John didn’t take his eyes off of Stefan as he said, “Let’s go.”

Sherlock obeyed and made his way towards the exit, stopping only to wave goodbye to Friederich and Fritz, who were so drunk and lost on each other that Sherlock’s gesture barely registered. John followed behind, and they stepped outside into a torrential downpour. They ran back to the main road to flag a cab.

Both were unusually silent during the ride home. Once back in the room, Sherlock poured two brandies and handed one to John. John took it with shaking fingers. 

“That place,” he said, his voice trembling. “I can hardly believe it.” He sat down heavily on the sofa. 

Sherlock stood in front of the fireplace, slowly peeling out of his wet clothes. John could tell something was wrong. His shoulders were slumped and he seemed weary. 

“I should have stepped in sooner,” said John, feeling guilty. “The fact I even let you stay in that place is a reflection on my-”

“Stop,” said Sherlock firmly. “Just, don’t.” He glanced up at John with tired eyes. “You really don’t know, do you?”

John shook his head, confused. “Know what?”

“Watson,” he said softly. He sat down, his elbows on his knees, his brandy snifter in his hand. “Watson.” 

John still looked at him blankly.

“I’m an invert.”

John cocked his head to the side. “A what?”

Sherlock sighed. “A sexual deviant. Inverted. I fancy men.”

John just stared back at him, dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe it. Sherlock had said it out loud. 

Sherlock sat back in his chair. He looked at his glass and swirled the liquid around. 

“I’ve known since I was young that my attraction to the fairer sex was dormant, if not missing altogether” he stated with calm acceptance. “I had tremendous affection for the hall boy when I was eight, and later, I couldn’t make eye contact with one of our footmen lest I retreated to the library for a book to place in my lap.” 

He smiled and looked up at John, who was staring back at him with wide eyes. 

“How can you talk about this with such reserve?” he exclaimed. John sipped the brandy too quickly as it was gone in a matter of seconds. Sherlock offered him more which he readily accepted. “It’s punishable by the law. You could go to gaol, or worse.”

“I don’t place an advertisement in the paper, Watson,” Sherlock said wearily. “I’m aware of the implications. I assure you, I have little choice in the matter.”

“But you do,” John earnestly replied. “You could marry. Have children. Stay away from... temptation.” John again finished his drink too quickly. His face and neck were flushed and he was perspiring. 

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with anger. “And what good would that do? To live a lie? Force others to live it with me.” He shook his head. “No. Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

John got up and unwisely filled his cup again. He faced the window, watching the rain pour down the pane. “What if you lived here?” he said carefully. “Maybe you could be happy. Here. In a modern city.” 

Sherlock leaned back, his fingers drawn to his lips in thought. John Watson had surprised him again, when so few did. “I’ve thought about it,” he admitted. “But even I didn’t know there were nancy pubs of ill-repute,” he said, half-jokingly.

John turned to him. “But that man...” he said, the realised something. “You didn't want -?”

“No,” Sherlock responded curtly, cutting him off before he could finish. “And I would not be happy here.” He stood and placed his cup back on the silver tray. “I’m not interested in dalliances with strangers or anything of the sort. I have my work. I am glad to be going home.” 

Sherlock unbuttoned and removed his damp shirt, and in doing so accidentally dropped his cuff links.

John walked over and picked them up from the floor. Sherlock turned to do the same.

The two men came so close to colliding that John felt Sherlock's breath on his cheek. Their eyes locked in a naked, passionate glance. 

Without thinking, Sherlock leaned in, his full mouth placing a firm kiss on John Watson's slightly-parted lips.

John let out a tiny whimper of shock as he received the kiss. Electricity flowed through his chin, down his neck and into his chest. He broke away suddenly by lowering his head. His chest rose with heavy breaths. He didn't think Sherlock was breathing at all.

“Watson,” whispered Sherlock. He stood there helplessly, wishing his valet would say something, even if it were in anger. 

But John was silent, seemingly struggling with his next action. He finally closed his eyes and said, “Will that be all, m’lord?”

Sherlock didn't answer right away. The silence was deafening between them. 

“Yes,” he finally said, as his entire, lithe form visibly deflated.

John quickly walked away, quietly shutting the door to the adjoining room.

\---------------

Travel was easy by railway back to France, and the short ferry ride to Plymouth found them back in the English countryside. The unusual evening in Berlin seemed less important the closer they got to Cornwall, until one would accidentally catch the other looking longingly at a hand, or a leg, or a neck, or a pair of lips.

The heat between them was growing despite their wishes. 

The two men didn’t dare discuss the matter until they were back in Lord Sherlock’s bed chamber, alone and dressing for breakfast one morning. John was fastening his lordship’s vest when Sherlock broached the subject, rather clumsily. 

“What happened back there...” he said softly.

“It’s forgotten,” John quickly replied.

“Watson. I don’t want…” He paused and looked down at John, who was staring back at him a bit mortified. “I give you my word. My intentions are true.” 

“Intentions?” John said. “What you speak of is a sin and punishable by -”

“Spare me a sermon!” Sherlock spat. “It’s not right or wrong. It just is,” he insisted. “Besides, that’s not my point. Do you want it? Do you want me?” 

“It’s not that simple,” he mumbled. 

“Yes it is!” replied Sherlock emphatically.

“No, it’s not,” said John firmly. “You are asking me to risk my position.”

“No one would know. You’d keep your position, here.”

“What if you tire of me?”

“Don’t be daft!” 

“Can you not see it from my perspective?” pleaded John. “You have all the power. ‘What I want?’ That’s a question far outside my privilege, m’lord. I dare say I never once thought about it until now.”

“But now you have,” snapped Sherlock. “So think about it some more.”

John sighed and shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

Sherlock walked across the room and pulled a book out from behind his others on the shelf. He took John’s hand, and placed it firmly in his grasp. 

“Read it,” demanded Sherlock. John glanced at the small, thin book in his hand. “Keep it hidden, but read it.”

Sherlock left the room as John tucked the book inside his jacket. He gathered his lordship’s clothes and made his way down to the servant's hall. 

****

Days passed. John had no opportunity to read the book as he was never alone. Even in the evenings, with Dimmock snoring just a few metres away he didn’t dare dig into his dresser where the book was hidden. 

He felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. What Sherlock was offering him was beyond his wildest dreams. This brilliant man, the eccentric scientist, British spy, second born son of the Earl of Cornwall had become his best friend, his family, his lifeline to a happier life, and this beautiful man dared to risk it all by professing his love for him, an orphan, broken soldier, the hired help? Overwhelmed didn’t begin to describe what John was feeling, but a tiny voice growing louder each day was telling him to face the truth buried deep inside. He knew it was unusual for a man his age to have never had one sexual experience, not even a kiss, until Sherlock’s lips touched his in Berlin. John had banished all thoughts of a sexual nature from his mind long ago when he found that he too had a crush on a footman, and on his schoolteacher, and on the marquess’s son...

John idolised his late father, a vicar who passed away when he was six years old. His mother had been intelligent, educated and clever, but she was also frugal, pious and deeply conservative. He began to drown in guilt and shame. How could he act on such impulses when it would cause such disrespect to the memory of his parents?

And what kind of life would he have with Sherlock if they crossed into something more? Constantly sneaking about, stealing a kiss here and there, always under the veil of secrecy. It sounded terrible. John desperately wished he could banish the desire and lust eating them both alive. 

He had to find a way to put it all back the way it was before. 

Sherlock waited almost a fortnight before approaching the subject with John again, one night before dinner. 

“Have you thought anymore about my proposal?” asked Sherlock, adjusting his jacket in the mirror.

“Aye,” John answered, his eyes downcast. He held out the appropriate cufflinks, and Sherlock glanced worriedly at him as he took the bits of silver and attached them to his sleeves. 

“And?” he said.

“I believe we should go back to the way things were,” John said, lifting the dinner jacket off the hook and opening it for his lordship. 

Sherlock didn’t move. John refused to look him in the eye.

He finally put his arm in the jacket, and John adjusted the collar and brushed it to perfection. 

“You’re certain,” said Sherlock. 

John finally looked up. Sherlock’s stare was intense. He looked disappointed and sad. 

John’s resolve began to crumble. He nodded his head quickly. 

“I am,” he said, his voice cracking.

Sherlock looked away. “Very well,” he said. 

John went to collect the dirty clothes on the chair. When he turned around, Sherlock was gone. 

\---------------

Later, in the dining hall, Mycroft, Irene and Sherlock ate in relative peace.

“The Boers are not behaving,” said Mycroft, as he took a small helping of potatoes off the platter held before him. “I gather our involvement will only grow.”

“Must we discuss such boring things,” scolded Irene. “I thought we might talk about the Spring festival.”

“Of course, my dear, whatever you wish,” said Mycroft, sipping his claret. 

“I received a letter from Commander Lestrade requesting my presence in South Africa,” said Sherlock. 

Irene shot him a dirty look. Sherlock ignored her. 

“He wants me to oversee a new division created just for this problem, apparently. Consultant only, nothing official,” he continued. “I’m to leave within the week. With things settled here, I’m rather keen on going.”

“Do what you must,” said Mycroft, between bites. “It’s a tiresome journey. You should take Watson.”

“Can you spare him?”

“He’s your valet,” said Mycroft. “I daresay I wouldn’t travel to the ends of the earth without a friendly face.”

“It can be no worse than the journey to Turkmenia,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but only said, “Do what you wish.”

Irene smiled at him. “We’ll miss you,” she said facetiously. 

Sherlock glared back at her as he cut vigorously into his meat. 

\---------------

It was later than usual in the servant's hall when everyone sat down to eat their supper. Everyone chewed in relative silence until Anderson opened his mouth.

“I don’t envy you, Watson,” he said loudly.

“Don't envy me for what?” said John warily. He’d had enough emotional upheaval to last him for the rest of his life.

“South Africa?” said Anderson. 

John ignored him and ate quickly, shoving the soup and bread in his mouth so he could leave. 

“South Africa!” said Molly. “That sounds so exciting! When do you leave?”

“By the end of the week,” answered Anderson, staring at John, who was still buried in his bowl. “His lordship said they’ll be gone for months.”

John then looked up, shooting a look that could maim at Anderson. “I’m not sure what you’re babbling on about, but I can assure you that I am not going to South Africa.”

“That’s not what Lord Sherlock said at dinner,” Dimmock piped in. “His lordship mentioned the Boers weren’t behaving, and Lord Sherlock said he had been asked to help. His lordship said you should go with him.”

John’s face turned crimson as he processed the information. The thought of being alone with Sherlock where no one would know them made his stomach flip. His mind momentarily began to wander into that fantasy, but he then pulled back. His mind was made up. Some things were just simply out of reach.

Later that evening, as John helped Sherlock undress, he was surprised at his lordship’s silence.

“I’m sure you've heard,” he finally said. 

“South Africa, yes. When do we leave?” He managed to sound indifferent, though his heart was pounding with excitement.

“I'll leave at the end of the week,” Sherlock replied. 

John swallowed. “I assumed I'd go with you.”

“You assumption is incorrect.” 

John just stood there hoping Sherlock had more to say. 

“But -”

“That will be all, Watson,” Sherlock answered softly, avoiding eye contact. “Goodnight.”

John bowed slightly and left making his way back down the stairs. He stopped midway to catch himself as his emotions welled over. 

Oh, what had he done?

 

******

Sherlock left on a cold, foggy Tuesday morning, and he was gone for nine months. 

John's days were filled with footman work. Once and awhile, a guest would arrive without a valet and he’d reassume his duties. He’d hoped that with Sherlock gone he could move past his desires. He even thought about making it with one of the village maidens during the spring festival. She was ready and experienced and he only had to say the word, but something in him kept him on his own. Maybe it was what Sherlock had said, about being alone protecting him. Maybe that was true. John had been alone for years. He had managed to survive after losing everything, and the thought of really connecting with someone, for even a moment, left him riddled with anxiety. 

It was finally autumn, and the days had become cooler and shorter. The family had packed up and left for London for a fortnight in celebration of a cousin’s wedding. Most of the staff had gone with them, but with Sherlock gone, John was left to watch the house and keep watch over the rest and their duties. 

It was privacy that seldom came with being in service. It had been years, except for the short trip to Berlin with Sherlock, that he'd had a room to himself. He had plans to look at the book that Sherlock had given him months before, the one he’d begged him to read but to keep hidden at all cost.

He turned in early and opened up his bottom drawer of his dresser to pull out the small book. 

He was surprised to find the title handwritten. In fact, it was all written in longhand and bound quite beautifully by a piece of silk string.

“A Book of Poems” it said simply. 

John turned the page and began to read. 

“The Affectionate Shepeard” by Richard Barnfield

Scarce had the morning Starre hid from the light  
Heauens crimson Canoipie with stars bespangled,  
But I began to rue th' unhappy sight  
Of that faire Boy that had my hart intangled;  
Cursing the Time, the Place, the sense, the sin;  
I came, I saw, I viewd, I slipped in.

If it be sinne to love a sweet-fac'd Boy,  
(Whose amber locks trust up in golden tramels  
Dangle adowne his lovely cheekes with ioy,  
When pearle and flowers his faire haire enamels)  
If it be sinne to loue a lovely Lad:  
Oh then sinne I, for whom my soule is sad.

John’s heart was beating so fast and his breath had quickened to the point he was worried he might faint. Never in his life had he read such outrageous claims. How was it possible this was published?

He studied the book closely, and surmised the penmanship was definitely Sherlock’s. He flipped through the pages, realising the book may have been a gift intended just for him. 

John turned down his reading lamp low, and checked to make sure his door was locked before crawling under the covers. He continued to read, and after several minutes, came to this passage.

Oh would to God he would but pitty mee,  
That love him more than any mortall wight!  
Then he and I with love would soone agree,  
That now cannot abide his sutors sight.  
O would to God, so I might have my fee  
My lips were honey, and they mouth a Bee.  
Then shouldst thou sucke my sweete and my faire flower,  
That now is ripe, and full of honey-berries;  
Then would I leade thee to my pleasant bower  
Fild full of Grapes, of Mulberries, and Cherries:  
Then shouldst thou be my Waspe or else my Bee,  
I would thy hive, and thou my honey, bee.

John quickly closed the book and placed it under his pillow. The soft sheets rustled around his thighs as he turned on his side, feeding the ember burning deep in his abdomen. He dared to place his hand on his body below and press firmly, the relief only brief as he helplessly curled his fingers around his hard length. His hips bucked a little as his legs fought the hot linens twisting around his ankles.

He could only think Sherlock’s mouth, his ample, soft lips pressing against his, the sense of his tongue waiting to enter, wet and hungry. He remembered the sensation of his breath dancing on his cheek, and the smell of brandy mixed with cologne and sweat and dusty Berlin air. 

He allowed himself to give into his desire, lazily stroking his body under the sheets, pulling, pressing, massaging between his thighs. He imagined bees and their honey dripping onto Sherlock’s pink, parted lips. John buried his head in his pillow to muffle a groan. He thrusted his hips, his swollen and slicked organ sliding easily through his thick, blunt fingers over and over again. His entire body trembled as the warmth spilt from the top of his fist, running down into his nightshirt and sheets. John continued gently stroking his body, his chest, his neck, riding the after waves of pleasure and basking in his release. 

He forced himself to rise and wash before crashing into sleep. He thought of placing the book back inside his dresser drawer, but thought better of it and left it under his pillow. He still had seven days before the family returned. He was going to make the most of it. 

 

…….

The next few months were nothing short of pure torture for John Watson. 

He thought of nothing but Sherlock’s return, of Sherlock’s lips, of the book of poems he read desperately over and over. He had taken to carrying it in his front breast pocket of his jacket. He knew it was dangerous to do so, but it made him feel better to carry it so close to his heart. 

In December, Sherlock finally came home. 

He was shockingly thin and tan, the angles on his face severe. His hair had begun to unevenly grow back from being sheared. The gleam usually present in his translucent eyes had gone missing. He looked tired and downtrodden. 

For days, Sherlock barely slept and took his meals in his room. John rarely had a moment to speak with him, and never alone. Mycroft was busy briefing him on Parliament when he was awake, and the rest of the time he wished to be alone, sitting in front of the fire in his bed chamber drinking bottle after bottle of brandy. 

Finally, John was instructed by Mycroft and Lady Irene to knock on Lord Sherlock’s door and insist he come downstairs.

“What is it,” answered Sherlock, slumped in his chair with his lithe legs stretched out on the ottoman in front of him. The fire roared with heat, the flames dancing in the glass cup he held in his long, graceful fingers. 

“His lordship wishes to know if you will be dining with the family this evening,” said John. 

“Please tell Mycroft that I will be resting,” responded Sherlock, sipping his cup. 

“Beg your pardon, m’lord,” John continued. “But it is Christmas Eve.”

Sherlock snorted in reply. 

Realising it may be his only chance, John pulled out the small book from inside his jacket. He laid it on the table next to the brandy snifter. 

Sherlock glanced at the book and paused. He slowly picked it up and flipped to the page that had been earmarked to read.

John pressed his hands tightly together behind his back. Oh, how he fought the desire to reach out and take a hold of him, to softly stroke the sharp angles of his cheekbones. He was convinced he could coax dark curls out of his sheared scalp with his fingertips. 

“I do hope you will reconsider dining with your family this evening,” John said softly. “They missed you terribly.” He swallowed, and dared to add. “We all did.”

Sherlock closed the book and placed it in his lap. He didn't look up, but managed a slight nod. 

“Yes,” he said. “My white tie. Please.”

\---------------

The Christmas festivities were grand as usual. Lady Irene had several guests from out of town, the Duke and Duchess of Nottingham and the Earl and Countess of Alnwick, who also brought their valets and lady's maids, so the house was full and chaotic but also full of cheer and spirit. 

John held extra duties as did all the staff during special events, so he caught glimpses of Sherlock as he served the guests. His jacket hung a bit too loose around his shoulders, but at least he'd allowed John to clip his hair so it presented evenly along his scalp. The young nobleman did display more pep in his step Christmas Eve and into Christmas Day, but John noticed the flashes of exhaustion in his expression when he thought no one was looking. 

He also tried to ignore the fact that since his return, Sherlock had not once spoken to him - or even made eye contact -unless it was for a strictly professional reason. John was determined to give him time to adjust being back home. He had no idea what Sherlock had been up to in South Africa, but he was worried. His heart ached to give him comfort.

Surely, he'd come around. 

On Christmas day, the servants were allowed to have the evening off. Most of them headed down to the village for the service and caroling.

John offered to stay behind. 

He made sure his last stop was Lord Sherlock’s room before turning in for the evening. He was actually surprised to find him still dressed. He was sprawled in front of the fire, obviously a bit drunk. 

“Beg your pardon, m'lord” said John. “Will you be needing anything else this evening?”

“I thought you had gone,” Sherlock slurred. He rose from his chair and walked with some difficulty over to his mirror and chest. He tried to remove his coat and failed. 

John immediately fell into step behind him and helped him undress. “No,” he answered. “I’m feeling a little tired, so I opted to turn in early.”

Sherlock stopped, concerned. “You're ill?” he asked.

“I'm well,” said John. He turned and hung up Sherlock's jacket. When he turned around, Sherlock was staring at him.

“Are you recovered from your trip?” asked John.

A dark, solemn expression clouded Sherlock’s features. 

“What happened?”

“Nothing of consequence,” he snapped. 

An awkward silence passed. Then Sherlock, speaking barely above a whisper, asked: 

“Did you read the book?”

"Yes. I did.”

Sherlock lifted his chin to appear indifferent, but John saw that elegant jawline tremble, those perfect, cerulean eyes fill with uncertainty. The nobleman's long, dark lashes fluttered nervously as John felt his heart squeeze with compassion.

"Did you find it amusing?”

John gasped. 

“What?”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. His chin rose higher as he clasped his hands behind his back. He swayed a little, still unsteady on his feet. 

"I acknowledge my- _sentiment _-caused you a great deal of discomfort. I was...surprised to find you still here upon my return. I had assumed you had ventured to find employment elsewhere, which is, of course, your right."__

____

John shook his head. "I never wanted you to leave in the first place."

Sherlock's gaze dropped to the floor. "I actually prefer it if you left." 

John's mouth went dry as his heart beat wildly in his chest. "Why?" he whispered.

After nine long months, Sherlock's gaze, piercing and open, met his.

"I thought going away would rid me of my feelings for you." 

"Stop," John said breathlessly. 

Pained embarrassment spread across Sherlock's face, but was replaced by bewilderment as John unexpectedly dropped to his knees in front of him. 

John looked up at him in awe, his voice trembling as he quoted the lines he'd memorized, the words that made him burn with feelings he hadn't understood until it had been too late. 

__“His ivory-white and alabaster skin is staind throughout with rare vermillion red,__  
Whose twinckling starrie lights doe never blin to shine on lovely Venus, beauties bed;  
but as the lillie and the blushing rose, so white and red on him in order growes.”

____

John took Sherlock's hand and pressed it against his cheek. 

"Please," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Don't ask me leave. And don't ever leave me again. I can't bear it. I'm so sorry. I just _can't _."__

____

____

He pressed the heart of Sherlock's palm to his lips and kissed, then buried his face in his lordship's long, lean knuckles. 

He heard Sherlock shift beside him, and suddenly, a warm cheek was against his own, a large, soft hand at the nape of his neck. 

When John finally looked up, Sherlock blinked back at him, his eyes shining brightly with emotion.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” John demanded. A hot tear escaped the corner of his eye. "I'll do anything. I don't care anymore. I have to be with you."

For a moment, it looked as if Sherlock's demeanor would crumble as well, but he willed his composure to remain steady as he pressed his forehead against his valet's. 

“I'd never make you stay here,” he whispered. “I understand now. There are places we can go.”

John nodded his head. “Yes.”

Sherlock continued. “I promise I’ll take care of you. You’ll need not worry about anyone finding out.”

“Oh, _Sherlock _", John whispered, as he pressed his lips hard against the nobleman's.__

____

____

“Watson,” Sherlock murmered.

Sherlock pressed the smaller man to the floor as he kissed him passionately, his large hands holding onto John’s jawline, unable to hold back any longer the desire to taste him, to consume him, to love him. 

John gripped at the nape of the man's long, graceful neck as he wrapped a solid arm around his too-thin waist. He gasped as he felt Sherlock’s hard length brush against his stomach. He thought of how he wanted to touch it, how it would feel like his own, hot and smooth and firm. 

Sudden voices in the hallway brought the two men back to their senses, and they immediately separated, gasping for air and rising to their feet. Sherlock quickly put on his robe as John gathered up his clothing. 

John couldn’t help but steal one more glance as he left. Sherlock’s smouldering gaze was on his body and flicked up to catch his eyes as he turned to walk out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of Stefan and Sherlock's conversation in the bar:
> 
> "Hello, my pretty. Can I buy you a drink?"  
> "I've got one already."  
> "Come, dance with me."  
> "I don't know you."  
> "Stefan, a pleasure. And you are?"
> 
> John's response to Stefan in poorly-spoken German:  
> "I take him home!"


	4. Tangier

Weeks passed, and even though Sherlock’s mood had improved significantly, his appetite had not. He continued to sit most days in front of the fireplace drinking copious amounts of brandy and claret. 

Yet every morning since Christmas, Sherlock waited for John to walk through his door. He'd greet him still dressed in his robe, gently pressing the handsome valet up against the door, nuzzling his warm lips and nose against his neck to breathe him in. John would melt into him, and slowly their mouths would meet, kisses soft and gentle, a crackling fire and the rustle of clothing the only sounds in the room.

There were nights John barely slept, unable to shake the feelings of lust and desire pent up inside his neglected body. He ached for Sherlock’s touch, and the most painful moments were right after he’d left the warmth of Sherlock’s morning embrace. He longed to be alone with his lordship for an hour, a day, a week, to kiss, touch, fondle, explore. The desire consumed him. He thought of nothing else.

It was the end of January when Sherlock announced to the Earl that he was leaving on holiday to convalesce somewhere “warm and polite.” Mycroft was relieved, stating that he had been constantly worried about Sherlock’s health and he was happy he was taking steps to improve his state of mind.

Of course, no one thought it unusual his valet came along.

So when John left England for the third time in his life, it was to head south instead of east. The two-day ride to Plymouth connected them with a steam ship that sailed around France to the Bay of Biscay where they debarked in Bilbao, Spain. A train took them to Madrid and then on to Seville, where Sherlock hired a driver for transport to Cadiz. From there, they boarded a small boat and docked in Tangier, Morocco.

The trip was long but not nearly as uncomfortable as John had imagined. He could actually stretch out and sleep on the boat and the train and there was food to eat and beer to drink. The further south they went the warmer the air, and when they finally reached Tangier the sea breeze felt like heaven on Earth.

Sherlock had already written ahead for accommodations, but John was shocked to find they were not staying at a hotel but in an entire house that had huge doors that faced the beach. Sherlock tipped the driver and greeted the hostess who gave him the key to the front door.

“Everything is in order, Lord Holmes,” said the woman. “Your meals will be delivered as requested at 8am every morning in the kitchen. Your valet is welcome to put any items you would like serviced outside the back door. And your bath is ready.”

“Thank you,” replied Sherlock. “I shall get quite a lot of work done with such privacy and quiet.”

John looked down to hide his smile, his hands clasped behind his back.

Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his white sleeves. He threw open the doors. The wind was light and warm and smelled salty. John again thought it was the most heavenly thing he’d ever experienced.

“Do we really have this place to ourselves?” asked John, opening a door that led to a bedroom and peaking inside. “It’s perfect. No one for miles.”

Sherlock turned and smiled. “Come here,” he said, holding out his hand.

John came forward and took his hand.

“Take off your coat,” said Sherlock, peeling the jacket off his shoulders.

He laughed as Sherlock pulled him towards the beach.

*****

When John sunk into the hot bath and washed away the grit from non-stop traveling, he started to feel human again.

Sherlock knocked on the door.

“Watson,” he said, his voice muffled. “Let’s dine in the sitting room, unless you’d prefer the kitchen.”

John, not used to being asked his opinion on anything, answered stupidly, “Uh, yeah, fine.”

“Also,” said Sherlock. “I left you something on your bed. To wear.” There was a pause. “I hope you like it.”

John got out of the bath and went into the adjoining bedroom. There on the bed were silk pyjamas. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers, then carefully slid them on his body. They were a little long for him, but they still felt glorious against his tired skin. He padded out to the sitting room, where Sherlock sat in similar clothing in front of a serving tray of food.

“I bought them in London,” said Sherlock.

“I like them,” said John, standing, “They’re comfortable.” He stood out of habit off to the side, near the platter of food. Sherlock looked at him oddly.

“Watson?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to sit down?” said Sherlock, motioning to the sofa.

John sat down awkwardly. He looked at the tray of food and his stomach betrayed him by growling loudly.

Sherlock reached forward and put some meat on his plate. “Help yourself.”

John finally began to eat. He still looked uncomfortable.

“What is it?” Sherlock finally asked.

John looked up guiltily. “I don’t know,” he answered. “It feels... wrong to be here.”

Sherlock’s face fell. He nervously played with his brandy snifter. “If you are having second thoughts, of course, I can arrange travel back to England.”

“What?” asked John. He adamantly shook his head. “No, that’s not -...” He leaned towards the food. “I only meant sitting down.”

Sherlock looked even more confused.

John tried to explain. “It’s just for someone like me, who has spent his life in service to suddenly be sitting here instead of standing over there, eating off a silver tray instead of serving it, wearing silk instead of brushing it...” He trailed off.

Sherlock got up to stoke the fire, and refilled his brandy glass while pouring John his first. “So you aren’t regretting being here with me.”

“What? No!” answered John.

Sherlock handed him the snifter filled with brandy and he took a generous gulp.

“I’m trying your patience.”

“Not at all,” replied Sherlock. He sat down next to him on the sofa and kissed him sweetly.

John kissed him back, enjoying the feeling of his full lips. It was a heady feeling to know they were alone. There was no one around to interrupt.

Sherlock’s hand rubbed though the silk along his waist. The sensation made John pull back, breaking the kiss.

“Sherlock,” he said softly.

“Watson,” Sherlock answered.

“Call me John.”

Sherlock’s eyes brightened at the request. “Alright,” he replied.

“Why me?” John whispered. He searched Sherlock’s ocean-colored eyes for an answer.

Sherlock’s large slender hand reached up, his palm gently cupping his cheek. “John,” he answered softly.

John leaned forward and captured Sherlock's mouth, letting his tongue passionately explore the inside of his pink, parted lips. He dared to grip Sherlock's narrow waist with both hands. Sherlock gasped in pleasant surprise.

“I must taste you everywhere my lips will fit,” begged John. His mouth slowly made its way down to Sherlock’s neck then to his collarbone. The tip of his tongue gently played with the reddish hairs on his chest.

Sherlock let John open his shirt with eager fingers. He settled back against the cushions and spread his knees wide, letting John remove his clothing or push it aside as he continued to fumble and seek out new things to kiss and lick.

His naivety was endearing, his enthusiasm unmatched as he devoured Sherlock on his own timetable, leaving little unexplored as he made his way down and then back up his lordship's long, lithe body. He finally brought all his focus to Sherlock's groin. His nose nuzzled along his hardened length, the thin silk of Sherlock’s pyjamas the only barrier between them.

John whimpered as he breathed deeply, his lips and tongue pressing into the silk and making it wet. Sherlock in turn gripped the sofa cushions. He was determined to let John have his way, but he wanted so much more from those trembling lips torturing his swollen sex.

John finally pulled down his pyjama bottoms. His tongue licked and tasted the tip of the organ. John moaned with pleasure as he licked again.

Sherlock’s head fell back against the sofa as John’s lips wrapped around the tip and began to suck. He licked and sucked and held gently onto the base of his shaft and stroked it up and down like he did his own. He was embarrassed at first of the noises he was making, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind, so he licked and sucked some more.

Sherlock’s body quivered in his mouth and in his hands. His translucent eyes were heavy-lidded and raw, his red lips wet and parted as his fingers opened and closed in the soft sofa cushions. John locked his deep blue eyes with his lordship’s as he continued to suck and lick gently, his technique messy and uneven. Sherlock, grateful to feel John's lips in any capacity, squirmed underneath him.

His mouth was suddenly filled with warm, salty liquid. John swallowed without thinking as his hand roughly palmed his own throbbing erection, his hips rocking back and forth. He whimpered softly as he released against his fingers, the head of Sherlock’s softening penis still touching his glistening lips.

He collapsed between Sherlock’s long legs to catch his breath.

“John.”

Sherlock’s deep baritone cut through the humid air like a sea breeze. John was suddenly terrified to look at him. Sherlock leaned forward and gently lifted his chin. “John, look at me.”

The fear that he had gone too far was evident in John's eyes. Sherlock pulled him close and kissed him. He could taste himself on his lips.

“You alright?” Sherlock mumbled against John’s lips. “Because I’m bloody well spent.”

John smiled and laughed, the kind of laugh that made the sides of his eyes crinkle. “Yes, alright. More than alright,” he said.

“Here.”

He offered his hand and helped John to his feet. Sherlock was naked except for his silk shirt hanging off his shoulders. His ivory skin accentuated the lean muscles of his chest, though his collarbone stuck out sharply due to his recent lack of appetite. The gradual narrowing of his depleting waist led to a flat, muscled abdomen where auburn hair trailed down into his groin. His legs were lithe but powerful and were in perfect proportion to the curve of his buttock, which was well formed but much too thin.

John was lost in the admiration of Sherlock’s body when nimble fingers began unbuttoning his pyjama bottoms. John immediately backed away.

“John,” purred Sherlock. “Let's make you more comfortable.”

“I’ll just, uh, change into my nightshirt,” John replied. “I’ll just be a moment.”

Before Sherlock could respond, John disappeared into the second bedroom and emerged wearing his nightshirt that reached his knees. He sucked in his breath when he saw Sherlock in the bed, naked, the covers pushed down to the edge.

“Join me?” asked Sherlock.

John walked slowly to the side of the bed and sat on the edge. Sherlock handed him a cup of brandy. John gulped it eagerly.

“Lie next to me,” offered Sherlock. He propped up the pillow as John pushed back and relaxed against the headboard.

They sat quietly and listened to the ocean waves through the open window. The moon was full, and it added an extra glow to the room in addition to the lamp.

Sherlock leaned in and kissed John sweetly. The kiss lingered as their mouths refused to separate, their tongues touching and dancing between their swollen, wet lips. Sherlock moaned softly as he pressed his hands into John’s chest. He heard the rustle of John’s chest hair against the cotton. He tugged at the nightshirt just as John pulled away.

“Sherlock,” whispered John. “I know I'm being foolish.”

Sherlock didn’t stop his kisses, only slowed his lips. “Yes, you are. Shut up and let me kiss you,” he said softly, pushing John back against the headboard. He reached up and pulled at the string binding John's nightshirt.

John grabbed his hand. “Stop.”

Sherlock froze. He didn't hide the hurt in his voice. “I don’t understand.”

John’s expression showed panic. He released Sherlock’s hand and held it tight to his nightshirt.

“Let me see you,” begged Sherlock.

John shook his head. “Sherlock,” he whispered.

“John.”

“No one’s ever seen me,” John explained softly. “I’ve never been with anyone.”

Sherlock gathered John's small, calloused hands from his nightgown and brought them to his lips. He kissed them over and over.

“How is that possible?” he whispered endearingly.

John’s face softened, but his fingers still moved back to clutch the gown.

“John,” said Sherlock, a large, slender hand cradling John's cheek. “You're all I think about.” His hand lowered to stroke John's chest through the nightshirt. “Let me in. Let me love you.”

Sherlock lowered his mouth to the thin shirt. He felt with his lips until he found a hardened nipple. He licked at it, dampening the cloth with his tongue.

John gasped.

“Sherlock,” he finally said. His resolve crumbled. “What if you don't like what you see?”

Sherlock looked up in surprise.

“I have scars,” John said quietly. “I’m not beautiful like you.”

His eyes dipped to Sherlock’s chest, his fingers brushing along his ivory shoulder.

“John,” whispered Sherlock, placing his large hand over his and removing it gently from his nightshirt. John’s breathing increased as Sherlock again pulled at the string, but this time he didn’t stop him. Sherlock pulled the nightshirt up and over his head and threw it to the floor.

“It’s alright,” whispered Sherlock against John’s trembling lips. Sherlock pressed his chest against him.

John closed his eyes as he felt the glorious heat of so much skin against skin for the first time. Sherlock's tongue gently played against his lips as he slowly pulled John by his hips down into the bed.

John’s chest was solid and strong with fine blonde hairs that spread down towards his abdomen and into his groin. His length was thick and large and hard as a rock. It lay leaking helplessly against his belly.

Sherlock kissed and nuzzled along his solid neck and into his left shoulder, which was strong and muscled. He then caught sight of the opposite shoulder, and for John's sake, suppressed his reaction.

The bullet had obviously entered from his back, with the exit wound just under his collarbone. A nasty, jagged scar started at the top of his shoulder and led down into his chest. Scar tissue surrounded the entirety of the scar, puffy, pink and tough. Patches of hair were completely missing from his chest and abdomen where scars from shrapnel peppered his right side. His right arm had a series of symmetrical scars, most likely from cuts made by doctors for blood letting.

Sherlock leaned over and gently placed his lips on the most mangled section of the scar. He kissed it softly, and began to move his lips down, kissing every part of the swollen pink tissue.

John’s brows were knitted tightly and his eyes were closed, but he gasped as Sherlock’s lips moved over his shoulder. He opened his eyes and watched in amazement as Sherlock worked his lips down into his abdomen, licking the hairless patches with his tongue, kissing the scars, brushing his lips against the tough skin that had grown around the shrapnel cuts.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “Sherlock…”

He kept whispering his name until Sherlock kissed him on the lips to still him.

Sherlock turned over onto his back and pulled John down to him, nestling him between his spread legs. He held onto John’s behind as he slowly began to rock his hips. Their arousals, trapped between their bellies, pressed and easily slid against each other.

John groaned in response, his desire finally winning out over his lack of confidence. He let his lips graze Sherlock's long pale neck as his small, strong hands pushed Sherlock into the mattress. He nipped at his sharp collarbone, his rock solid length settling in the dip of Sherlock's narrow thigh. Sherlock reached between them and wrapped his long fingers around John's sex, feeling the warmth seep from the tip.

John stopped breathing the moment Sherlock began to stroke him. He had imagined this in his mind so many times, but the real thing didn’t even begin to compare to his fantasies. He lifted himself up by his arms so he could watch Sherlock's hand move up and down. He was gentle and slow at first, but as John's body began to tighten his grip became firmer and his movements swift. John gasped and moaned, his expression one of helpless desire. Sherlock gazed at him with parted, wet lips as John trembled and cried out and came all over his lover's pale stomach. Sherlock stroked and squeezed every last drop from his body.

John collapsed onto his back next to Sherlock, his chest rising in jagged swells as he recovered from his release.

Sherlock pressed his fingers into his stomach as the warm liquid pooled along his erection. He gathered himself in his hand and glided his fist along his organ, using John to slick himself. John watched him with wide eyes as Sherlock worked himself into a frenzy, his hips bucking as his palm stroked and twisted. He whimpered and spilled onto the same spot John had moments before, their seed mixing on his slender, white belly.

John immediately leaned forward and captured Sherlock’s wet lips, feeling the sweat that had formed along his temple and cheeks. He gently probed his mouth with his tongue.

“I love you,” John whispered, kissing him. He lay against him and held him close.

It was the last thing he remembered before falling into a deep, relaxed slumber.

\--------------

When John awoke the next morning, he found Sherlock curled up next to him, breathing softly. The sheet had fallen to his hips, leaving his chest exposed and his soft cock peeking out from the bottom. John licked his lips. He had dreamt of Sherlock’s body all night in strange, broken scenarios that made no sense, except he knew he’d spent his entire sleep aroused and wanting more.

The sun was fighting to get through the drawn curtains in the bedroom as he dared to bring his face close to his new lover’s pelvis to breathe him in.

Sherlock smelled like sex.

John leaned forward and again breathed deeply into the dip of his thigh. His nose gently rubbed along the fine hairs. He was helpless against his tongue darting out to taste the tip of the testicles nestled close to his lover’s body. The hairs were softer than he expected. He licked again. His pink, swollen lips then dared to kiss, and he kissed and licked and his calloused fingers gently stroked Sherlock’s soft length. He used his palm to push the long slender organ into his mouth. He swallowed.

Sherlock, roused from his slumber, looked down with sleepy eyes to see John’s blonde head bobbing over his abdomen. He gasped and groaned and pulled John off of him, forcing him up to his own full lips, kissing him and licking him.

“You're spoiling me,” he whispered.

“You were made for spoiling,” John whispered back.

Desire ignited deep in Sherlock's belly. He pulled John close and growled back:

“Then I get to taste you, too.”

Sherlock moved to the foot of the bed. He glanced up at John and stuck out his pink tongue, licking the tip of John’s sex.

They locked eyes as Sherlock drew John’s member into his mouth and sucked, then pushed his hips so close to John’s face that his leaking, wet length brushed against his cheek.

John pulled his body into his own greedy mouth. The pleasure he took was immediately given back to him as Sherlock pleased him from below. The covers were thrown to the floor as the two lay in the middle of the bed on their sides, head to foot. It was a lazy give and take as they enjoyed each other’s mouths and tongues.

The room was silent but for the soft sounds of sucking, moaning and skin rustling against skin.

John had never felt another person’s lips on him, and it was hot and wet and wonderful. He kept his hips still and let Sherlock take him and do what he wished. John began to mimic Sherlock’s moves with his own mouth. It wasn’t long before Sherlock sobbed and groaned and came easily onto John’s tongue. The sudden warmth and bitter taste gave John an adrenaline rush. He spent himself into Sherlock’s mouth as he continued to lick and suck and swallow him down.

He then gathered Sherlock into his arms and pulled him back up the head of the bed. They were both still incredibly sleepy, and they didn’t fight it but let it take them both as they fell asleep face to face in the bed.

\---------------

Late in the afternoon, Sherlock and John ate, bathed and relaxed around the house. At twilight the two walked down to the beach hand in hand and waded in the surf, the ocean’s waves foaming at their feet. The breeze was cool, and John held Sherlock close as they enjoyed the feel of sand between their toes. As the evening grew darker, they both settled in each other’s arms against one of the smooth large rocks along the shore. They lay together for a long time, enjoying the sound of the waves and the warmth of each other’s bodies.

When Sherlock finally broke the silence, he ran his fingers over the top of John’s hair, smoothing it from the sea breeze ruffling it about. He smiled admiringly at John.

“Tell me, why did you leave service to join the army? Did you want a life of adventure?”

John remembered that day he was turned out of Halidon by the marchioness. Like his shoulder, it was a wound that had never properly healed.

“It’s the same story you always hear,” said John. “I was in a public house and a recruiting sergeant plied me with free drink. I woke up with the Queen’s shilling in my pocket.”

Sherlock looked confused. “But you could have reconsidered. Even the queen gives you twenty-four hours to change your mind. Surely a life of service was preferable to serving in her majesty’s army.”

John was silent for a moment. “I wasn't in service at the time,” he replied carefully.

“I don’t understand.”

John sat up and rested his arms on his knees. He stared out into the ocean. “My mother died suddenly. I was dismissed soon after.”

Sherlock sat up. “Who dismissed you?”

“The marchioness herself.”

“But why?”

John shook his head. “I don’t know. She said I should leave right away since I was sixteen and my employment terminated upon my mother’s death.” John turned to Sherlock, a deep sadness in his eyes. “I lost everything.” He leaned back against the rocks, his head dipping with the weight of the memory. “I was on my way to Luss, where my father is buried. He was a vicar. I was hoping to find family or a place to stay, maybe work with the church there.” John turned back to Sherlock. “But on the way, I met the soldier…” John didn’t go on, but shrugged his shoulders.

They both sat in silence for a long time. Sherlock, visibly upset to learn of his lover’s hardships, turned and scooped John into his long arms.

“But you saved my father’s life,” said Sherlock. “You’re a hero, John.” 

He carefully touched John’s bad shoulder. “How did this happen?”

John closed his eyes and let the memories of the war voluntarily flood his mind. He could easily go back to that day he was shot outside of Kandahar because it was always bubbling underneath the surface, threatening to emerge, to ruin his every moment whether awake or asleep with the smells, tastes, and sounds of the battle. He closed his eyes and rested against Sherlock as he spoke.

“Maiwand was..." he began, then swallowed uncomfortably. “I was on front line. The Afghan artillery didn’t let up for days. Just kept shooting and shooting and shooting. I couldn’t think, between that and the bloody heat.” He paused, wiped his brow. “I saw my friend Bill go down, and I crawled over and tried to wrap my jacket around his head. He was bleeding, blood just...it was everywhere. And I felt something hit me in my shoulder and I can’t remember if I fell or it knocked me down, but Bill was there and he was looking over at me and he smiled. And I watched the light leave his eyes.”

Sherlock reached over and threaded his fingers through John’s. He kissed him gently on the temple.

“I realised it was over for me too,” he said softly. “I lay there next to Bill and I thought about my mother and my father and how I’d ended up halfway across the world seeing things that I never dreamed of, like temples and mountains and camels. And it sounds strange now, but I remember feeling grateful.” He looked up at Sherlock, his eyes glassy, but he was determined not to cry. Not a tear spilled as he took a deep breath. “The next thing I remember is waking up in hospital with horrible pain in my shoulder. When I begged for relief the nurse said they’d run out of morphine so I suffered for days until I was finally shipped back in India.”

“And you went on to London?”

John nodded. “My old comrade Stamford had opened a doctor’s office and said he could use some help but couldn’t afford to pay me much,” he said. “Then I contracted typhoid. I only lived because Stamford took care of me. I finally felt better but got kicked out of my bedsit for nonpayment. I slept on the street for a while." John's face flickered red with shame. "I was too proud to tell my friend. I’d sometimes hide outside the bakery on Piccadilly and wait for them to throw out the stale bread, just so I didnt starve.” But then, he unexepectedly smiled. “When I ran into your father again, I had just been tossed out of another job interview.”

“You’re joking.”

John shook his head and chuckled. “I stopped on my way out of that fancy hotel to warm myself by the fire. I dropped my cane just as your father walked by and recognised me," John said. “I’m certain he thought I was there as someone’s valet. He offered me a job for the second time."

“I never knew that story,” said Sherlock. “So when you showed up at Land's End, you had no other place to go. Which is why-”

“-I wouldn't take no for an answer?”

“I wish I could take it all away,” he said sadly. “So much pain. So much loss.”

John sat up and held Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Oh, Sherlock, don’t.” He smiled and kissed him and stroked his fingers through his curls. “Don’t look that way. Not for me.”

Sherlock rested his forehead against John's. They both stayed that way for a moment, breathing each other in, until John whispered:

“For you, I'd go through it all again.”

Sherlock pulled John close and kissed him deeply. He didn't let go for a long, long while.

\------------------

_Someone kept knocking on the door. Knock, knock, knock! He felt Sherlock slide out of bed. He heard him slip on his robe._

_The front door opened a moment later, then closed._

_The bed dipped again. John opened his eyes. Sherlock was sitting up, his robe hanging open at the top, exposing his strong, white chest and light, auburn hair. He was reading a letter._

_“Everything okay?” John mumbled._

_“Yes,” said Sherlock. “More than okay.” Sherlock leaned down and kissed him. “It’s a letter from Mycroft. He says we never have to leave. We can stay here forever.” He rubbed the back of John’s neck._

_John grabbed the letter out of Sherlock’s hand and threw it on the floor, pushing him down and stripping his robe, his lithe, pale body stretched out and exposed. John nipped at his neck and down his chest and licked over the hairs leading down to his groin. Sherlock tasted so good. He opened his mouth and slid the soft cock between his lips._

_Sherlock groaned and came up off the bed, but John pushed him back down. He sucked him until he was good and stiff, then pulled his lips away with a loud smack._

_He held onto Sherlock’s length with a light fist, slowly stroking once, twice, three times, up and down, up and down, up and down._

_Sherlock whimpered and looked up at John helplessly. John licked his lip and stilled his fist._

_“I want to see you take it from me,” he growled._

_He stroked Sherlock’s leaking shaft once and stilled his hand again._

_Sherlock bucked in response._

_“Yes,” whispered John. “Take it.”_

_Sherlock's backside rose up off the bed, his hips pushing his hard, hot length through John’s slicked fingers. John tightened his grip a bit, the smooth, firm organ pulsing as it slipped over and over through his fist. Sherlock gripped the sheets underneath him, his narrow, milky hips thrusting eagerly as he worked so hard, seeking release._

_John watched breathlessly, captivated by his lover's sounds and squirms. Sweat glistened on alabastar-like pectorals as dark curls stuck to his perspiring forehead. Red, wet lips resembled the swollen prick being continuously punished by a firm fist. He leaned over and buried his tongue inside a hot mouth, capturing the breath as he twisted his wrist. Sherlock cried out, grabbing onto his shoulders as he writhed, fingernails then digging deep into his biceps in response._

_John flipped him like a doll onto his side and curled up behind his back, holding him down and sliding his rock-hard, leaking sex snugly into the crevice of his soft behind. Slicked fingers gripped Sherlock's tender jaw and turned his long, graceful neck in order to devour sweet lips and tongue. John licked and sucked and swallowed Sherlock's muffled moans as his slender body struggled against his solid, stout chest._

_John's lips pulled away the moment his fingers again found the swollen length. Sherlock cried out as the fingers teased him, and he thrusted and bucked and pushed his round little bottom back onto John’s groin. John twisted his short, muscled legs around Sherlock's elegant calves and pinned his pale limbs to the bed._

_John then snapped his hips, forcing Sherlock's tired, trembling thighs to speed up, his delicious, jiggling arse grinding and bucking wildly as John held him tightly against his chest. Finally, finally, Sherlock began to quiver and lose his breath as John whispered hotly into his ear:_

_“I love you. I love you. I love you.”_

_Sherlock’s fingers scratched at John’s hips as he fought for his pleasure. He shuddered violently and cried out “John!” as his partner held him through his release, forcing him to feel all of it, every wave of pleasure, every rock of his hips, every stroke of his wrist. It was a full minute before Sherlock stopped shaking and John stilled his hand. He gently turned him to stroke his narrow shoulders and kissed him sweetly on the mouth._

_Sherlock was breathtakingly beautiful. He looked ravaged and satiated and deeply in love as he looked back at John with hooded, sleepy eyes. He reached up and stroked John’s cheek._

_“John,” he said, his eyes darkening. “Use me however you like. Please yourself.”_

_John felt his cock harden so quickly it was painful. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against his lover's cheek, then slowly turned him onto his stomach. Sherlock moaned as John ran his hands along his behind. John separated his buttocks with his palms and memorised the lines, soft hairs and pink, tight centre of his body. His fingers trailed up and down the inside of his cleft, making Sherlock squirm in pleasure._

_He pushed Sherlock’s ivory thighs together and slicked the insides with the fluid still thick and wet on his hand. He straddled pale, strong legs and spit into his palm, stroking and slicking himself as he guided his length in between Sherlock's skinny, firmly pinned thighs._

_Sherlock gasped in surprised and held still, holding his legs together tightly as John slid himself in and out, in and out._

_John could feel Sherlock’s round, white bottom underneath him as he moved in a steady rhythm. He felt the soft hair and smooth skin of Sherlock’s bollocks glide along his length. He thought of what it would be like to bury himself inside of Sherlock’s rosy, tight body, to take him and make him his, to hold him down and love him and protect him. The thought became too much for John, and it was all over too quickly as he spent himself into Sherlock’s milky white thighs. He collapsed onto Sherlock’s back and buried his nose in his curls and breathed deeply, and whispered once again ‘I love you, I love you, I love you’._

_Sherlock’s shoulders began to quiver and shake. Soft sobs escaped the pillow where his face was buried. John leaned down, concerned, the cries growing louder..._

John awoke from the dream and sat straight up. For a moment, he had no idea where he was, but his body was as hard as a rock.  
He looked around. The room was pitch-black except for a streak of moonlight beaming through the crack in the curtains. Suddenly, a loud whimper filled the room, making his heart stop. The bed shook underneath him.

“Sherlock?” whispered John.

His hand hovered over Sherlock’s sweat-soaked curls. Sherlock jerked back and forth against the pillow, the tears on his cheeks glistening in the moonlight. He mumbled incoherently as his limbs fought the sheets.

John braced his sizzling forehead with a firm, small hand.

“Sherlock,” he said firmly. “It’s John. Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

Sherlock thrashed harder against his palm. John repeated himself, encouraging him to open his eyes.

Finally, he began to calm down. John could just make out that his eyes had opened, but his breath quickly became laboured again as he gripped John tightly with two icy hands.

“John?” Sherlock said, his voice small and weak. “Where am I?”

He gently cradled his wet, curly head.

“You’re safe,” he said. “Just rest for a moment. Get your bearings.”

Sherlock took several deep breaths and let himself relax into John’s embrace.

Suddenly, a loud sob escaped from his throat. He buried his face in John's chest to muffle his cries, his thin shoulders shaking violently. John held onto him, rocking him tenderly back and forth.

“This happens a lot when you let yourself sleep, yeah?” asked John, though it was more of a statement than a question.

Sherlock nodded his buried head. His long fingers were curled in a death grip on the front of John’s nightshirt.

John smoothed his hair, speaking softly.

“You want to forget, but your mind won’t let you,” he said. “You can have your guard up during the day, but at night…” He trailed off, but reached for Sherlock’s fists and gently pried them way. He laced his blunt fingers into his slender ones.

They lay there for quite some time in the darkness until Sherlock’s breathing finally became even and deep.

John held onto him the rest of the night.

\-----------------

When John awoke the next morning, Sherlock was sleeping soundly. He didn’t stir at all while John washed and dressed.

He made sure the curtains were drawn and the doors secured. He left water and a note on the bedside table, and set off on his own.

He walked along the road running parallel to the shoreline. It was warm and bright, and the cool ocean breeze kept him from sweating. Halfway to the village, he stopped to watch six men haul a decent-sized boat from the water onto the rocky shoreline. He continued on, but could barely see the tiny town before he reached it, as it was nestled up in a hill and protected from the sea. A large wall that surrounding Tangier was in the distance. He climbed the hill and entered a clover-shaped archway, and took the stairs up to the village centre.

The main thoroughfare was bustling with people and animals. Men in turbans were selling fruit and grains. Women with covered hair walked by with baskets full of wash or food balanced on top of their heads. Burros carrying burdensome loads stood patiently as their owners talked animatedly in the streets. Dogs slept peacefully in the shade as children played in the arched doorways.

A beautiful mosque sat in the centre of the village, three stories high. Intricate, floral tile work peppered its horseshoe shaped windows. John could just make out an oasis of plant life and beautiful fountains just inside the gate. The sound of trickling water relaxed him as he journeyed further inside.

He entered a quieter section of the town with shops and what looked like a schoolhouse. A sign on the next door caught his eye.

John walked up to the small structure and looked inside. The door was locked and the place looked abandoned, but he could see furniture. He went around the side to get a better look.

Just then, a man walking by slowed and then stopped.

“Bonjour,” said the man. He was older, with gray hair and round glasses, dressed in European clothing. “Intéressés à louer?”

“Parlez-vous English?” asked John. He held out his hand. “John Watson.”

“Ah,” said the man. “Jean Pierre.” He shook John’s hand. “Pleasure, Monsieur Watson.”

John pointed at the sign. “Apothecary?”

Jean stepped up and pulled keys from his satchel. “Oui, Oui, uh, no docteur,” he said. “Go to Spain.”

John peered inside again. “Unfortunate,” he mumbled.

Jean stepped up and unlocked the door. “Want to see?”

Before John could protest, Jean opened the door and walked inside. John followed. The room was deep, and was separated in the back by a partition. The front waiting area had several old chairs with a huge, dusty curtain hanging from the ceiling. Jean pushed the curtain back to reveal an old wooden desk and empty shelves lining the wall. Two high wooden slabs sat in the middle of the room, and several cots were along the opposite wall.

“Tu es docteur?“ asked Jean.

John shook his head. “Army,” he said.

“Ah, army docteur,” said Jean. Again, before John could say anything, Jean moved one of the cots aside and opened a small door behind it. He pulled out a large wooden crate. He slapped his hand on the lid.

“Medicine!” he said, smiling. “For you.” He pried open the crate, and inside, in pristine condition, were a month’s worth of medical supplies.

John shook his head. “No, Monsieur Pierre…”

“Ah, Jean!” he said, pointing to himself. “You docteur. Use here. No money, one month.”

John again tried to protest, but Jean was stubborn. John took another look around. He knew he could do it. If it didn’t work out, well, he was out nothing.

“One month,” he sighed.

Jean giggled and reached forward, grabbing the sides of John’s arms and kissing him excitedly on either side of his cheeks.

“Bravo!” he shouted.

John, amused with Jean’s reaction, glanced around the small apothecary again and mumbled to himself,

“Yes, bravo indeed.”

\------------

 

When John returned, Sherlock had just emerged from the bath, clean and wrapped in his silk robe.

He immediately sat down on John’s lap and wrapped himself around him like a kitten.

“How was the village?” he rumbled.

Sherlock was relaxed and pliant and smelled wonderful. John breathed him in and tenderly brushed the damp tendrils from his forehead. “I think I’m going to set up an apothecary.”

Sherlock cocked his head, his clear eyes surprised, then crinkling at the sides as he smiled. “Of course you should. That’s brilliant.”

“You think so?”

“I do.” Sherlock kissed John’s neck. “I have the upmost confidence in you.”

John beamed, his posture rising, chest swelling. He pulled Sherlock close and kissed him, softly at first, then with growing passion. Sherlock rubbed his large hand between John’s thighs.

“John,” he whispered. “I need you.” He stroked firmly over John’s hardening body, his fingers travelling up his chest.

John slid his arm underneath Sherlock's knees and stood up, easily carrying him into the next room. He laid him on the bed and settled on top of him, pulling the robe off within seconds. John, still fully clothed, pressed a naked Sherlock into the bed, kissing him and stroking him and pushing his elegant, white knees wide open with his palms.

“Tell me what I need to do,” whispered John eagerly. “I’ll do anything. Anything you want.”

Sherlock pushed against John’s shirt and undid his trousers. “Take off your clothes.”

John stripped himself and knelt onto the bed as Sherlock crawled into the middle of the sheets. Sherlock took John’s fingers and put them into his mouth and sucked and left them very wet. He then placed them between his legs, and he let John rub him there along his body.

“John,” he whispered. “You can kiss me.” Sherlock’s eyes were dark, his breath quick. He pressed John’s fingers further along his behind. “Anywhere,” he said breathlessly.

John’s eyes flashed with the sudden permission, as he had no doubt been thinking of doing the same, but his lack of experience had caused him to hesitate.

He slid to the foot of the bed. He pushed Sherlock’s legs up and pinned them against his chest. His palms spread open his white, firm buttocks. He leaned down and softly kissed Sherlock’s opening.

Sherlock gasped and grabbed onto John’s forearms. John kissed him there again, this time with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock shook with pleasure and threaded his arms under his knees, holding his legs up for John to better explore him.

John kissed and licked against his body, feeling Sherlock pulse against his lips and tongue. Sherlock moaned, his length resting against his belly, hard and fat and desperate for attention. John guided the leaking sex into his mouth and sucked.

He then licked and kissed his tightened testicles and slid his tongue up and down his cleft. When he kissed his opening again, it had loosened a little, and John daringly slid his tongue a bit inside.

Sherlock groaned obscenely. John had never heard him make a noise like that, and he wanted to hear it again. He pressed his tongue back in and kissed and licked deeply, forcing his body to open further. Again Sherlock let out a noise that sounded more animal than human. It did nothing but encourage John to go deeper, to spread him wide.

John worked him over and over, sucking his length, licking his testicles, kissing his center. He gently pushed his finger in along with his tongue. Sherlock fluttered open even wider, so hot and slicked with his own spit. John lost his breath when he thought about putting himself inside of there, just a little, just for a bit. It would be so warm and so tight. He wondered if Sherlock would let him just as fresh blood rushed into his aching groin, making him slightly dizzy.

“John,” said Sherlock breathlessly. “Come here.”

John responded immediately, his lips on Sherlock’s, his body wrapping around him and holding him close. “You taste so good,” whispered John between kisses. “Tell me what to do next.”

“Lie on your back,” said Sherlock.

John did as he was told. Sherlock slid down to his abdomen and sucked him, keeping him very wet. He then straddled him, and spit into his hand and rubbed into his behind. He looked almost angelic in the moonlight, so regal, his pale skin glowing and glistening with sweat.

“Now hold very still,” Sherlock said gently, taking John into his long, slender hand and guiding him into his cleft, gliding himself up and down and all over, until Sherlock gasped and stopped and John felt the head of his length catch inside him. Sherlock ever so slowly lowered his hips. It took every ounce of John’s willpower to hold still, wanting push in, to take the heat and feel the pressure of his body, but he did as Sherlock said. He instead concentrated on Sherlock’s face as it changed into a hundred tiny expressions. He took John more and more into his body until John finally felt Sherlock’s bottom resting on his bollocks. His lover’s breathing was labored and his eyes were still closed. His expression went back and forth from pain to pleasure and back again.

“You’re beautiful,” whispered John. He couldn’t help bringing his hand up to cup Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock opened his eyes and exhaled. “John, you're so big. I need to get used to you.” He moved his hips ever so slightly. John gasped and rose up. “Trust me,” Sherlock said softly, pushing him back down. “Let me do this. Lie back.”

John was flat on his back again as Sherlock began to move his hips, slowly grinding onto John’s body as his lover filled him up.  
Sherlock pressed into John’s belly with his palms, arching forward and then backwards, then bouncing his hips gently, his behind grinding into the top of John’s thighs. His length, which had softened, began to fill out again and was soon bobbing along with his hips as John watched his lover take his enjoyment from his own broken body. It was glorious.

He took John's hands and placed his palms on his behind as he rode him, his milky thighs fluid and rhythmic, pulling John’s desire out of him one pulse at a time.

He then leaned forward and buried his face in John’s neck, his hips grinding harder and deeper. John whined and held on to his soft, white bottom, wishing he could see himself moving in and out of Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock, as if reading his mind, rose up and gathered John’s hands, threading his fingers into his. John braced him with extended arms as Sherlock pulled himself to his knees. John watched his body emerge from Sherlock’s tight bottom, exposed and wet and red.

“Move, John,” commanded Sherlock. John’s hips snapped up and pushed back into Sherlock harder than he intended. His lover cried out and squeezed his fingers tightly. “More,” he said breathlessly.

John thrusted up again and again and again, watching himself disappear and then reemerge, feeling the tight, hot heat of Sherlock’s body letting him in. Sherlock squeezed his fingers so tightly they hurt as John continued to snap his hips, and suddenly Sherlock was writhing and shaking and pushing back down onto him. His body began to spill all over John’s chest, and he watched in amazement as Sherlock trembled through his release, completely untouched, his seed spreading all over John’s body.

Sherlock sobbed with uncontrollable passion, his face etched with shock at what was happening to his body. John kept thrusting as he sat up, pressing his lips hard against his and pulling him tightly against him to continue his spending as long as possible. John held him close and began to lose control, his hips now snapping relentlessly up into Sherlock's well-used body. His fingers played in the cleft of his bottom as his lips sucked a pink, erect nipple.

John felt the waves approaching. His hips thrusted up violently a few more times as he cried out Sherlock's name over and over again, filling him up for the first time and making him his.

They collapsed on top of each other, covered in sweat and fluid. John helped Sherlock onto his back and kissed him.

“Are you alright?” asked Sherlock, his breath still recovering.

John nodded his head, catching his breath too. “Yeah. You?”

Sherlock nodded. “That’s never happened before,” he said.

John looked elated. “Good,” he said. He kissed him and stroked his sweaty curls. "You're brilliant. Amazing. Perfect. I can't believe how brilliant that was." 

Sherlock chuckled. 

"Oh John," he said, smiling devilishly. "We've only just begun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> 1) Are you interested in renting?
> 
> 2) Are you a doctor?


	5. The Spaniard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers a secret Sherlock has been hiding.
> 
> Things get dark, folks. 
> 
> Warning for extreme dubious consent.

Six months had passed since they had first arrived in Tangier. John spent morning to mid-afternoon in the village treating and working with the locals. The rest of his time was spent outside exploring or leisurely combing the beach.

He grew strong and lean, the sun darkening his skin as it lightened his hair. His posture went from one of rigid anticipation to relaxed confidence. One day, Sherlock looked out at the ocean from the house and didn’t recognise him standing in the sand. He no longer resembled the John Watson he’d brought to Morocco. This man was virile, vibrant, and no longer followed orders. He gave them.

One evening, they sat around the fire drinking brandy as the rain pounded against the windows. John was unusually silent.

“Out with it,” said Sherlock.

John glanced over at him. “What?” he said innocently.

Sherlock set his glass down and leaned forward. “You’ve been looking at me like I’m a firing squad for the last half-hour,” he stated. “Out with it,” he added quietly.

John closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m...” he began hesitantly. “Sherlock,” he said, starting over, looking at him with weary eyes. “I’m concerned about you.”

Sherlock leaned back, his jaw set in frustration. He tossed back the rest of his drink.

John continued. “You’re still not sleeping, you’re not eating…”

“I see,” said Sherlock slowly. “The village apothecary thinks he’s a royal physician now?”

Hurt flickered on John’s face, but it was quickly replaced with determination.

“No,” said John. “But I do think you are sick. Your mind isn’t right.”

“What do you know of my mind?” he snapped.

Sherlock glared at him as he twirled the brandy glass on his knee. John reached forward and snatched the snifter. He slammed it on the table between them.

“Fine,” he said. “You’re a bloody drunkard. It has to stop.”

The wind temporarily shook the shutters as the rain battered the house. Sherlock turned towards the fireplace, his chin taught, lips pressed together in anger.

John struggled to soften his voice. “You’re killing yourself. Please…” His voice cracked a bit on his last word. He leaned forward and placed his hand on Sherlock’s thin knee. Sherlock looked back at him, his eyes like poisoned darts.

He got up and went into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

*******

An hour later, John dared to slip into the cool side of the bed, with Sherlock curled up fast asleep on the other side.

John was naked, his thick length half-erect and bobbing as he settled under the sheet. His tanned chest rippled a bit with defined muscle. His scar had faded to the point it was no longer pink and swollen but white and smooth. His shoulder hadn't bothered him in over a month.

John slid his calloused palm over Sherlock’s thin, bare hip. He stirred as John budged up behind him.

John stroked his chest and hips slowly and softly, waking him. His kissed the back of his neck and nuzzled his curls.

Sherlock grunted and roughly pushed John away. He curled back up tightly against his pillow.

Shocked, John laid there for a moment, then reached forward and placed both hands around Sherlock's skinny waist, sliding him back into his chest.

Sherlock struck him with a sharp elbow right in his jaw. John caught the long limb before it could strike him again, but Sherlock fought back, shoving at him, trying to get up from the bed.

It was that moment that something snapped in John. For months he had felt helpless, angry, and exhausted from the daily grind of living with someone who was slowly destroying himself. He was scared more than anything, but his desperation mixed with the sudden pain in his jaw filled him with uncontrollable rage. 

His needs were going to come first, for once.

Sherlock, weak from months of poor self-care, was already sweating and worn down from the brief tussle. John pushed him down and pinned him to the bed, albeit more roughly than he intended. Sherlock, momentarily stunned, stopped struggling. John leaned down and whispered hotly in Sherlock’s ear:

“This is happening.”

Sherlock trembled and shut his eyes, his cock twitching against his thigh. John dared to kiss him, tenderly, softly. Sherlock tried not to respond, but his mouth opened against his will, accepting John’s gentle tongue as he kissed and licked inside pink, parted lips.

He remained still until John dug his fingers into his skinny hips. He squirmed as John pushed his thighs apart and positioned himself between his legs. A gasp escaped his pink, insolent mouth, his body responding to the heat and pressure of John's flat abdomen.

Sherlock felt a muscled leg snake around his milky thigh. Hot lips brushed his graceful neck, his defenseless nipple squeezed between a forefinger and thumb.

John's teeth bit and tugged at his full lips. He ran his fingers tenderly down the concaved belly, where the hard, slender organ lay. He stroked with a loose fist as Sherlock groaned helplessly. Raw desire had replaced some of the anger in his beautiful, translucent eyes. John locked his own eyes on those crystal orbs and stuck out his tongue. He licked at his throbbing, red nipples, leaving them wet and glistening with saliva.

Sherlock crumbled with desperate need, his eyes glistening with conflicting emotions as John turned Sherlock onto his side and held him tightly against him. He licked the shell of Sherlock's ear, and whispered hotly:

“I'm going to bury my cock inside you. I'm going to fuck you, make you come, make you scream.” He pressed a kiss into Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock’s entire body shook as he drew in a long breath, helpless as John hooked his shaking leg over an arm to spread his narrow thighs. Fingers reached between to massage his tight, smooth testicles. A palm worked its way up to his neglected sex to deliver firm, delicious strokes. John kissed him everywhere as he played with Sherlock's lithe, undernourished body. Sherlock reached back, digging his fingernails into the back of John’s thick neck. A pair of sun-kissed hands fondled his pubic hair and teased his opening.

Wet tongue danced along his shoulder, down his back and over the skin covering his tailbone. The sound of someone spitting generously into the soft crevice made him squirm. Lips ghosted along his darker insides with breath purposefully strong and generous. John maneuvered Sherlock’s body as he pleased to open him, pressing his lips against the pink, puckered centre. The fluttering entrance unfurled with a firm, wet tongue as he coaxed his middle finger inside, adding more saliva to the sweet opening. Sherlock’s body fought him as he gently pushed in a second finger, the tight heat making John heady with desire.

John nipped at his hip, leaving bright red marks behind as he wiggled a third finger alongside his other two.

A low, desperate whimper escaped from Sherlock’s throat as he slowly moved his fingers in and out, in and out, in and out.

John abruptly removed his fingers, pushed Sherlock onto his back and mounted him, chest against chest, lips pressing against his sweaty forehead. His hands pressed against the insides of his white thighs, spreading them wide as his thumbs stroking the crest of his smooth bottom.

“Show me,” he whispered, leaning back, taking in Sherlock spread out before him.

Sherlock, held down by John's strong arms, tipped his arse up and presented it to John.

John greedily licked his lips as he watched the pink entrance flutter, unable to close.

He gathered himself in his hand and pushed inside slowly, oh so slowly.

Sherlock cried out, the burn real and raw. It had been weeks since they’d made love.

John stilled his hips and kissed him gently.

Sherlock’s breathing calmed, and John dared move again.

Their eyes met as John slowly fucked him.

“Does that feel good?” John whispered to him, softly nuzzling his ear. “Do I make you feel good?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Yess,” he answered honestly, openly, his defenses finally gone. "John, it feels… Oh!”

John snapped his hips once, then twice. Then again. And again.

The top of Sherlock’s head banged against headboard.

“What about now?” he whispered roughly. “This better?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, his eyes closed as his curls bounced with each deliberate thrust.

John slowed his hips. He pulled Sherlock’s knees up and over his shoulders and pressed forward, pushing the breath from Sherlock’s lungs.

A brutal rhythm ensued as powerful hips smacked against a tender behind, Sherlock's bottom no longer white but a splotchy pink. John drove into his body hard and fast, Sherlock watched him, his eyes now clear but his expression blank as John took what he wanted.

John shifted, and the long legs fell from his shoulders. The pressure from John's flat, muscled abdomen suddenly stirred Sherlock's length. John let his weight drop onto the thinner man beneath him and gripped the headboard for leverage. John grunted and stopped breathing as he buried himself as deep as he could go inside Sherlock’s poor used-up body.

He shook violently as he orgasmed. Sherlock could feel the warmth inside of him, filling him up. His eyes fluttered closed and he found he couldn't help himself. He wiggled and pressed himself over and over into John’s abdomen, the pressure building until he finally succeeded in releasing himself, his seed spilling between them, his body writhing underneath the heaviness of a collapsed and recovering John. He dug his fingernails into John’s arms as he rode the waves of pleasure, feeling the wet spill off the sides of his belly.

He licked his swollen lips, and waited for John to let him up.

  
\-------------

John pressed his lips against Sherlock's long, bruised neck. He breathed in his scent, the sweet smell of his skin, of soap mixed with sandalwood and sex.

He pulled himself out of Sherlock as gently as he could. He glimpsed the bruises on his shoulders and thighs. He suddenly felt deeply ashamed.

“I’m sorry” he said softly.

Sherlock answered with silence.

“I was too rough.”

“Yes.”

John gently cradled Sherlock's face. He then got up from the bed.

“Where are you going?”

John stopped and looked back at Sherlock, his eyes surveying his body.

“To draw you a bath.”

\-----------

Sherlock refused to get into the bath without him, so he stepped into the steaming water and leaned back against the head. Sherlock got in next, settling between his legs, his head on his chest. The tub was long but not long enough as the tops of his knees stuck out of the water.

John washed Sherlock’s hair and then bathed him gently, using his expensive soap scented with sandalwood. When he’d rinsed him, he gathered him in his arms and held him, the bath water still hot but now filmy with soap.

“Have you always wanted to do that?” asked Sherlock carefully. “What you did tonight.”

John’s fingers played in the water. He was ashamed of how he’d behaved. He'd hurt Sherlock - intentionally - and it scared him. 

“No, never," said John. “I have dreams sometimes. I do things... I want to be in control, but I've never... Sherlock, God, how can I fix this? Can I fix this?”

Sherlock turned and looked at him, his gaze piercing in the candlelight. 

His expression suddenly softened. 

"This is boring me. I don't want to talk about it," he commanded, turning around abruptly, splashing water all over the floor, and settled onto John's chest. 

Several moments of silence passed, until Sherlock whispered:

“You dream of me?”

“Of course I do."

A beat followed, then John whispered softly:

"I love you."

“Love,” he said. “People use that word all the time. Rarely do they know what it really is.”

“Is what we have real?”

“I think so.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock threaded his pruning fingers into John's. “Because I thought I loved someone before you, but now I realise it was something else entirely.”

John felt a surge of jealousy, though he knew it was ridiculous. He knew Sherlock had more experience when they first began their relationship. There had to have been someone, though he’d never really thought about who it was until now.

“Was it a man?”

“Yes.”

“What was his name?”

“Victor,” answered Sherlock. He played with John’s hands absently as his mind wandered back to his days as a British spy. “Our affair lasted two years. He was with the Russian army.”

John tried to suppress his curiosity, but he had to ask.

“Was he the first person that you, did he…”

“Yes. He was my first lover.” Sherlock turned again to look at John. “You’re my second.”

John pressed on in spite of his jealously. “Where is he now?”

“Not sure, but St. Petersburg most likely,” answered Sherlock. He paused, then said, “I accidentally intercepted a letter from his wife. She was letting him know that his four children were doing well and that she had become pregnant during his furlough.”

“You didn’t know,” said John. “How devastating.”

“It was dreadful at the time” said Sherlock thoughtfully. “But as our relationship unravelled I began to see that Victor had chosen to lie. I could see the pain it caused him, being unable to face who he was, forcing himself to fit in. I’ve never regretted being with him, because he helped me define who I wanted to be and the kind of life I was willing to live.”

John’s eyes lit up. It all made sense now. “In Berlin, you told me you were better off alone than living a lie.”

“Precisely, John.”

“Is that why you went to South Africa without me?”

Sherlock didn’t answer him. His demeanor suddenly stiffened as his breath slowed.

“Sherlock?” Still no response. Sherlock lay quietly against his chest. “What happened in South Africa?”

Sherlock suddenly sat up and got out of the bath, dripping water all over the floor. He grabbed a towel and began to wipe himself off.

John watched him from the tub as he finished drying himself. He began to walk out of the room, when John asked him where he was going.

“To bed,” he finally answered. He turned back and gave John a tired smile. “Don’t wake me up to fuck me this time.”

The lewd comment, though a joke, still stung. He tried to smile, for Sherlock's sake, but failed. 

\------------------

Finally a dry day allowed John to open his windows and doors at the little apothecary. He aired out the room and dusted and swept up. Several villagers came by with routine problems. He took inventory of his supplies and was confused when he found a considerable amount of morphine and cocaine missing from his stockroom.

He locked up the small door and decided his next step was to ask Jean Pierre if he’d taken anything. He walked out into the street just as a large shadow loomed over him.

John glanced up, squinting through the sun shining behind the huge figure sitting on top of an even larger camel. The man, wearing a striped djellaba and red tarboosh, spoke:

“Que haces en mi oficina?”*

John blinked. “What’s that?”

The man sighed and mumbled to himself. “Debería haber sabido, un puto inglés. Voy a asesinarte, Jean Pierre.”**

He shouted a command at the camel, and the magnificent creature bent down with a melodic moan. The rider slipped off, pulling the striped garment and hat off his body.

The man, who looked to be around forty years of age, approached John with the swagger of authority. He was muscular but graceful, his face rugged yet unconventionally handsome. His eyes were big and brown, his lashes full and dark, just like his shaggy hair. His jawline sported at least three days worth of scruff. He wore tanned trousers and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Dark chest hair peaked out of the V near his neck, since he'd failed to fasten the top two buttons.

He stopped and loomed over John, glaring at him. John stood his ground and glared right back at him.

“I said, what are you doing in my space?” he commanded in perfect English, though his accent was detectable and quite elegant.

John assessed him coolly. He licked his lips.

“Jean Pierre gave me this space for my apothecary.”

The man snorted. “Your apothecary?”

John gave the man a slight smile. “That's right. And you’re the Spaniard.”

The man’s eyes sparkled at John, amused by his gall. “And you are?”

John held out his hand. “John Watson.”

His hand hung out there for quite a while. The Spaniard reluctantly shook it, his hand engulfing John’s.

“Felipe Ovilo Canales.”

John nodded in recognition of the name. “It seems you've returned earlier than expected. Well, it was good while it lasted," he said. "I’ll be out of your way in a few hours.”

He turned to go back inside, when Felipe stopped him. 

“Wait,” he said. He pulled a satchel from the camel’s saddle. He slid open the pouch and discreetly revealed a bottle of liquor.

“Let’s have a drink,” he said, motioning towards the building.

John looked up at him suspiciously. “Why?”

Felipe shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’m curious to know why an Englishman would want to run a shitty apothecary in Tangier.”

John paused, then chuckled. “Alright,” he said, nodding. He extended his arm in a sweeping gesture. “After you.”

\-------------------

It was later than usual when John arrived home. He called out for Sherlock but there was no answer. He searched for him everywhere, and finally found him passed out in their bedroom, sleeping like the dead. John let him sleep and walked through the house, opening the large doors to the ocean and enjoying the first dry day of the year.

As he walked through the doors he stepped onto something, hearing it crunch under his boot. He lifted his foot to find a broken syringe smashed into the sandy dirt. He thought it odd... then his heart stopped beating in his chest.

“Oh God, Sherlock,” he mumbled. “No, no, no.”

He immediately turned around and went back into the house, frantically searching the drawers and cushions of the home. He made his way into the kitchen where he opened every cabinet. He searched the bathroom, the second bedroom, their bedroom. Nothing.

He was about to give up, relieved to have found nothing, when his eyes caught view of the desk in the corner of the sunroom.

He went over to the elegant, trim desk and pulled on the drawers. They all revealed nothing but letters and tests tubes and random findings from Sherlock’s scavenger hunts. He then noticed the bottom drawer’s appearance was off. It was too shallow. He pulled out the letters lying on top and lifted the base inside. Hidden underneath was a long box.

John hesitated. It was well worn tin used to store sweets. It had no lock. Surely inside were peppermints. Sherlock had an insatiable sweet tooth.

He almost let it be. He wanted to let it be. But instead, he flipped open the lid.

Inside were the missing vials of morphine and cocaine.

Plus needles. And a multitude of other painkillers. Enough to render anyone unconscious many times over.

John removed the tin box and put everything back the way it was. He tucked it under his arm and walked though the large doors and down the path to the ocean.

He stood at the water's edge for a long time, looking out the horizon, the wind whipping his hair. He watched an object bob up and down in the waves. After several attempts at reaching the shore, the bottle washed up on the sand at his feet. It was an empty vial.

John picked it up and put it in his pocket.

His face crumpled as the loud surf covered up the sob that escaped his throat. 

\--------------

John sat with the brandy in his hand next to the fire, but he didn’t drink it. He didn’t feel like it. He’d waited all afternoon and evening for Sherlock to stir. The tin box sat on the small table between the armchairs.

Sherlock finally stumbled out of the bedroom at almost midnight. His hair was mussed and he was wrapped in a sheet. His bony chest was exposed as were his feet. He carefully padded to the table holding the brandy and poured himself a generous glass. He gulped it down.

“Glad you could join me,” said John from across the room.

His voice startled Sherlock, who quickly turned and began coughing. He finally got a hold of himself and said, “What time is it?”

“Midnight,” answered John.

Sherlock scowled. “What are you still doing up?”

“We need to talk.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and refilled his cup. He walked stiffly to the armchair next to John. He sat down and sighed. It was then he caught sight of the tin of sweets on the table between them.

His body froze. He shot John a frightened look, then looked away. His chin drew taut against his jawline as his neck and chest turned a deep pink.

“How long has this been going on?” asked John coolly. His anger was in check, but he wasn’t sure how long he could keep it that way.

Sherlock’s hand began to shake as he lifted the glass of brandy to his lips. He dared glance at John before taking a sip.

“John, I-...” he began, then stopped to take a deep, breath. He gripped the armchair. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

John licked his lips, his eyes burning with rage. “You don’t want to talk about it,” he repeated softly. “You’re injecting yourself with morphine and cocaine. You drink like a fish. You won’t eat. You barely sleep. And to top it off, you’re a thief.”

Sherlock turned and glared at John. “I am no such thing!”

John laughed. “Oh, yes, you are. You stole those vials from my apothecary. Medicine to be used for less fortunate people who really could use it. It’s disgusting.”

“Oh, there goes Doctor Watson again, bragging about his apothecary. John Watson, the savior of Tangier!”

John shook his head. “No, no you don’t,” he seethed. “I’m not letting you off this time.”

“Oh, you went easy on me then?” Sherlock said, his eyes flashing. “Did you bother to wake me this time, or did you just have your way with me while I slept?”

Sherlock relished the look of shock on his former valet’s face as the words sunk in. He knew he was being cruel, but he also needed those drugs. He couldn’t live without them. John, well, John would eventually forgive him... or at least the odds were he would.

John stood up and leaned in to Sherlock, his hot breath on his cheeks. “If you don’t stop injecting yourself with those drugs, you will die. There are signs, and you have them. Your organs are shutting down. It’s only a matter of time.”

Sherlock refused to look at him. He stared at the floor.

“Sherlock.” John began to lose his composure. He cleared his throat but it didn’t help. The emotion welled up through his chest and into his head. He grabbed Sherlock’s hands and squeezed them tightly as he broke down, his voice strained as his throat tightened.

“Don’t leave me, goddamn you,” he pleaded. “You can’t leave me alone. Don’t do this to me. I can’t…” He stopped himself before any tears spilled, sucking in a long, hard breath.

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes hard and dead.

“Are you finished?” he said calmly.

Blindsided by his apathy, John Watson simply blinked, releasing the welled-up tears down his cheeks in streaks. He let go of Sherlock’s hands and wiped his face with the back of his shirtsleeve.

“Yeah, I’m finished,” he said.

He flipped open the tin of sweets and pulled out the stolen medicine. He left the rest, shutting the lid and handing the tin to Sherlock.

“All yours,” he said. When Sherlock refused to take it, he threw it in his lap and walked away, slamming the door to the second bedroom behind him.

\--------------

The next morning the weather was calm, though the clouds were heavy with rain. John was up early, quickly packing what little he had in the same bag that had belonged to his mother.

Sherlock was in his robe slumped in a chair in the sitting room. It was too painful for John to bear, to see in broad daylight the demise of his best friend, his lover, brilliant scientist, teacher, military spy, the Earl of Cornwall’s second born.

He was so thin, skin pasty, prominent cheekbones exacerbating the gaunt patches along his jawline. His hair was so slick with oil that his curls had disappeared.

John stood there, trying to remember the last time he’d seen him properly dressed.

Last Christmas. “Watson, white tie,” he’d said.

“I’m going now.”

“Obviously.”

John placed his hand on the door knob. Sherlock rose from his chair.

“You begged me not to leave you alone,” he said. His translucent eyes failed to sparkle, but their gaze still held John in place.

“I know,” he answered softly.

Sherlock suddenly looked very young. His voice resonated across the room, saturated with sarcasm and apathy. “Instead you’re leaving me here. Alone.”

“You’ve left me with little choice,” answered John. “I…” His next words caught in his throat as raw emotion threatened to overwhelm him. He dared look up and acknowledge the thin, emaciated shadow of a man that he once loved standing there, glaring at him, hating him, raging at him with fierce, beautiful eyes.

“You’re really going to do this?” Sherlock hissed defiantly. “After everything we’ve been through -”

“Don’t say that to me,” John said, shaking his head. “Don’t.”

Sherlock raised his blunt chin and narrowed his eyes. “I gave you this life.”

John’s shoulders sagged. He nodded his head. “Yes, you did,” he said sadly. “But I can’t stay here. I can’t watch this.”

“What, John? What? Pray tell, what is it I'm doing to you that is soooo terrible?” Sherlock howled. He threw his arms out, mocking him.

John hiked his bag up over his shoulder and opened the front door. His face was again stoic, his voice calm.

“Nothing. Not anymore,” he said sternly. His eyes met Sherlock’s one last time, full of disappointment and sadness.

“You can kill yourself in peace. Because I won't be coming back.”

And he left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

The story picks up in "Marquess My Words, Dear Watson", Part II of the series "Untitled Nobility"

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> *What are you doing in my office?
> 
> **I should have known, a fucking Englishman. Jean Pierre, I should murder you.


End file.
